


Goodnight, Moon

by dragonflysoul



Series: Goonight, Moon [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awesome BigBrother Dean, Awesome Bobby, Awesome Dean, Awesome Missouri, Bad ass wee Sam, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, De-Aged Sam, De-Aged Sam Winchester, Dean's Deal, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Post s03e12 Jus In Bello, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Sam still has his adult mind...sometimes, Sick Sam, Supernatural Elements, Tissue Warning, Worried Dean, all the feels, season three, wee!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3289976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonflysoul/pseuds/dragonflysoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaning further into each other, they stood their ground. It was how they had survived every storm they’ve ever weathered. It was how they would survive this one too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Continuing to slowly post older work here.  
> Check out the fantastic artwork for this fic done by KamiDiox: http://kamidiox.deviantart.com/art/Goodnight-Moon-268567490

 

**CHAPTER ONE**

 

 

He wasn’t going to say goodbye. He didn’t that night at Cold Oak and he wasn’t going to now. “Jus…just hang on, Sammy,” Dean begged, not caring the way his voice cracked, not paying heed to the tears seconds from falling, only noticing the breath in his little brother’s chest—every single labored one. “We’re almost there.”

 

Sam did hang on—for what it was worth. Lying in his brothers arms in the back seat of the Impala, Sam weakly fisted the leather jacket in his hands, tears lazily streaming from his tired, pain-filled eyes as they reflected the moonlight they chased.

 

“Sammy, just hang on...”

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

ONE WEEK EARLIER

 

Outside—dozens of wings beat upwards towards the pale pink sky and away from the thunder pulsing through the earth.

 

Beneath the surface, flashlight held face forward and barely secure under his right armpit, running as fast as his will and burden would allow, Dean shot his way through pissed spirits, the dark and a confusing network of tunnels.

 

_This is so not happening,_ echoed through his mind like the shots from his gun echoed against the cave’s walls. Even with the deafening cacophony everything sounded muted and distant to Dean—adrenaline narrowing his world down to one thing. One purpose. _Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don’t look back! Now, Dean, go!_

 

And he did. His legs burned. His arm ached. But he ran. And adjusting the bundle against his side, let out a stream of cuss words that would have made their father blush. If he were still alive.

 

As daylight neared and the tunnel and attacks seemed to finally come to an end, adrenaline started to lift and with it…

 

“PUT. ME. DOWN! I can walk!” Sam struggled against the fierce hold, but Dean just held him tighter.

 

“Dean! I can walk, damnit!”

 

Ignoring him, the older brother didn’t stop until they reached the Impala. Sitting Sam on the hood he dropped the flashlight, and stepping back, barely hung onto the shotgun with numb fingers. In the light…it just made it more real.

 

_Holy…_

It was an unseasonably warm spring morning and the sun rising over the plains cast the boys in vibrant colors that betrayed the fear darkening their eyes. _Holy shit. Holy shit._ Minds and hearts racing, they stared at each other, both panting. One from running. One from…well…

 

Washing a hand down his face trying to catch his breath—and apparently the last of his sanity, Dean stared, _really_ stared at his brother. He stared for so long, Sam started to squirm, “Stop it, you’re making me uncomfortable.”

 

Dean’s eyebrows rose, “I’m making **you** uncomfortable?!” he gaped incredulously. “Sam, you can’t be more than **four-years-old**! What the hell did you do?!”

 

Sam looked as indignant as he possibly could for his current… age, “ _Me_?! I didn’t do anything! One minute I’m killing the leshii and the next you’re staring at me like I have ten heads!” he yelled back from his precarious spot on the hood.

 

“Which would have _at least_ been _cool!_ ”

 

“Dean!”

 

“Alrightalrightalright.” The eldest, and now tallest Winchester started pacing back and forth. “What could have done this? And, more importantly right now,” he stopped to study the boy again. “How do you feel?” The tremors racing through the tiny body hadn’t gone unnoticed to him.

 

“ _Small_ , Dean,” Sam replied steadily, eyes and voice cold. “I feel very, very small.”

 

“Funny.”

 

“You could have at least grabbed my shoes and pants,” Sam said, bringing his bare knees up to his chest and tucking them under his shirt and hoodie—for self-conscious reasons as much as to keep the chill off them. He had slipped right out of his clothes when Dean picked him up and though it was warm for South Dakota this time of year…that really wasn’t saying much.

 

“Yes, well, excuse me for wanting to get you out of there alive. You were vulnerable and the spirits knew it. Besides, it’s not like they’re gonna do you much good right now.”

 

Groaning, Sam buried his head in his knobby knees, and turning towards the cave entrance they had just come from, Dean nervously rubbed a hand down his face. “Maybe we slipped through to an alternate universe, or something,” he offered weakly.

 

“Right, Dean, where I just happened to not grow.”

 

Dean shrugged. “Maybe Sammy’s grow at a slower rate here.” He jerked and looked down at his brother’s wadded up sock after being hit square in the head with it. “Dude, that’s just gross.”

 

“Well, would you be serious, Dean!”

 

Dean threw his arms up, shotgun still in one hand. “What the hell do you want me to do, Sam? This is a first for me too, ya know.”

 

Huffing, Sam dropped his head in his knees again, and helpless Dean turned back towards the cave entrance, hoping it would offer up the answers they sought—not surprised when flashing neon lights didn’t point out a single fudgin’ clue.

 

A loud squeak followed by a grunt had him turning around to find his recently downsized little brother in a heap on the ground, struggling and failing to get up in his bulky clothes.

 

“What happened?” Dean rushed over to help him, laying the shotgun on the ground.

 

“You need,” Sam grunted and fell one last time before Dean finally wrapped his hands around the tiny shoulders and bodily picked him up and set him back on his feet, “to stop waxing your car,” he breathed, slightly disoriented from the fall. He had slid right off.

 

Dean rolled his eyes. Like that was gonna happen. “You okay?” he started brushing off his little brother’s clothes, but Sam smacked his hand away and gaped at him in disbelief. “No, Dean, I’m not okay. I’m four feet tall!”

“Dude, I don’t think you’re even four.”

 

Jaw flapping, taking a deep breath, Sam squared his little shoulders and stepped around him. He felt insanely weighed down by his hoodie and shirt, which were dragging across the ground, but that wasn’t going to stop him, nor was the disconcerting feeling of being so _close_ to the ground now.

 

Dean grabbed his sleeve though. “Where do you think you’re going?”

 

“The answer to whatever did this is in there, Dean. That means the answer to turning me back is too.”

 

“Sam, there is no way you’re going back in there.”

 

“Why not?” He tugged on his arm, trying to get free from the giant grip. _Geez, who was the sasquatch now?_ He just had to get some weapons and…

 

Dean just blinked at him. Then, alarmingly easy, in one swift move, shoved back his sleeve, grabbed his small hand and lifted him up until they were eye to eye. A resigned Sam, once six-foot-four inches, dangled in front of his brother, eyes lowered, “I see your point.”

 

“Good,” Dean lowered him back down. “now let’s go.”

 

“W-what? We can’t just leave, Dean.”

 

“Sam,” he patiently turned back to him. “Neither one of us is going back in there until we find out what we’re dealing with. We need to get to Bobby’s while one of us can still reach the pedals.”

 

Resolve and shoulders deflating with reasoning, Sam sighed, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Looking back at the cave entrance though, he hesitated. “Dean…” he tried not to sound scared, tried not to sound unsure. It was exceptionally hard with his new voice.

 

“We’ll figure it out, Sammy,” Dean said in his big-brother-knows-best tone. “If something was able to make you small, it should be able to make you big again, right?”

 

Sam could only hope.

 

“Come on, shorty, I’ll buy you an ice cream on the way.”

 

Sam closed his eyes. It was going to be a looooong day. Turning, he carefully made his way back in his lone sock...which he had to keep tugging back on. “Enjoy it while you can, Dean, but we both know who the real shorty is in the family.”

 

Dean just smirked, but stopped Sam when he went to climb in the front seat. “What?” Sam couldn’t tell if his brother looked amused or apologetic.

 

“You, uh, you have to sit in back.”

 

Just in case his glare didn’t get his point across, Sam kicked his brother in the shin before hoping in. One advantage to suddenly being so little…

 

Dean wouldn’t hit back.

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

_HolySnugglesFuck_

Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he tramped on some funky mushrooms and inhaled their funky mushroom dust.

 

Driving as fast as he could without risking being pulled over—cause that would be loads of fun, Dean looked down for the hundredth time. Sam was curled on his side asleep next to him—knees drawn up under Dean’s leather jacket.

 

Dean had changed his mind about making him sit in back. He wanted him close. He wanted to be able to reach him if he needed to in a hurry…like when, ten minutes out Sam had started to list. Panicked, Dean immediately pulled off the road, anxious hands on his brother demanding to know what was wrong.

 

The only thing that was wrong, apparently, was that the four-year-old version of Sam was a potty mouth…and just tired.

 

Still, Dean was almost glad he had fallen asleep. It was getting harder and harder to act like he wasn’t _totally_ **_freaked_**. His Sammy was… _Sammy_ again.

 

_Jeezus…._ He washed a hand down his face. Aside from the fact that if they couldn’t fix this they were totally screwed….oh, wait, no, they were just totally screwed.

Sighing, he looked down again at his little brother and a rush of nostalgia shot through his veins. He couldn’t help the small smile that met his lips. Sure, Sam might still be grown-up on the _inside_ , but on the _outside_ …

 

He couldn’t believe his sasquatch was ever that small—though he knew it better than anyone else. Reaching down before he could stop himself, Dean smoothed aside his bangs. He frowned at how warm he felt. _Great._ Sam was also sounding a little congested—a squeaky sound coming from his little nostrils every time he breathed out.

 

God, it was adorable.

 

…

…

…

 

They were so screwed.

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

The dog barking told him he had company. The familiar rumble told him who it was. Bobby couldn’t help but smile. He hadn’t seen the boys in weeks and damn if he didn’t miss the trouble finders. He was hoping they’d stop by. Their last hunt was barely an hour away.

 

When he only saw Dean though, he got worried. The two were attached at the hip, even more so since…recent events and if his kid brother wasn’t with him….

 

When Dean got out, walked straight around the car, opened the passenger side door and crouched down, Bobby’s worry skyrocketed. Sam was with him after all. And he was hurt.

 

He quickened his pace across the scrap yard. “Damnit, how bad?”

 

Dean didn’t answer him, though. Instead, backing out of the car his arms were full…with a sleeping child wrapped in a leather jacket.

 

“Where…who the…?” The eerily familiar dark haired boy didn’t wake, but instinctively wrapped his arms and legs around Dean.

 

And that’s when it hit Bobby. “Holy shiii…”

 

-

-

 


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

 

 

“Jeezus H… what’d you two retards do now?” Bobby yelled, only to be shushed by Dean.

 

“We don’t know exactly what happened, Bobby. That’s why we’re here.”

 

“What? You’re just rollin’ down the highway playing _I Spy_ , when, _poof_?”

 

Dean rolled his eyes, “Not exactly, no… listen, can we continue this after I lay him down?” He shifted the boy in his arms. “He’s small, but the kid’s solid.”

 

Bobby eyed them skeptically. “Are you sure it’s even Sam?”  


The younger man looked offended. “Of course I’m sure!”

 

“Look, I’m just…”  


“It’s him, Bobby,” Dean’s tone left little room for argument. “Now where can I lay him?”

 

Bobby sighed, but started towards the house mumbling something about not owning any damn diapers.

 

Dean stood staring, mouth gaping at the older man’s back. He was at least four- _years-_ old, not four- _months-_ old, for cryin’ out loud. “For Sammy’s sake, I’m not even going to dignify that with a reply.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

“Well, he looks normal… for a four-year-old, anyway,” Bobby observed, watching the boy sleep in his usual spare bed. It dwarfed the once six-foot-four frame now though. “How was he actin’?”

 

“Like Sam. Adult Sam,” Dean amended, eyes never straying from the boy. “I don’t understand, Bobby. What’s the benefit of….of, of shrinking something and making it smaller if you’re gonna eat it?” He cringed at his own words, but he knew it needed to be asked.

 

“Well, maybe to eliminate the threat. Sam’s not much of one now, is he?” he said grimly.

 

“Have you ever heard of a leshii doing this?”

 

“No, but when the hell does that make a difference?”

 

Dean cocked his head to the side, _Touche’._

 

Bobby frowned, “He have a fever?”

 

“Yeah, little one,” Dean confirmed. “You think it’s just his body adjusting?” he asked hopeful. “Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t wake up in the car for me.”

 

“How the hell should I know? Do you see ‘pediatrician to the paranormal’ anywhere on this flannel?”

 

Dean saw the sarcasm for what it truly was, though—blinding, heart-wrenching worry. They were responsible for more of those grey hairs than age was.

 

Mumbling something, Sam curled onto his side towards Dean…then with a gasp, bolted straight up.

 

“Sam?” Dean edged onto the bed.

 

Looking down at his hands, his _tiny_ hands, Sam’s shoulders fell. “Fuck.”

 

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, half amused, half stunned. Sam rarely used language like that and to see it coming from someone his…size... “Out of the mouths of—”

 

“Don’t even,” his little brother warned, cutting him off.

 

_‘Cranky’_ Dean mouthed silently to Bobby, then crinkled his brow when Sam started to pinch himself. Frowning, Dean pulled the hand away. “Sorry, bro. No funky mushroom dust.” Didn’t he wish though.

 

Sam took a deep shaky breath, but couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from his hands. The older men watched as he kept flexing them, mesmerized. “Any luck figuring out how to change me back yet?” he asked, trying to put on a strong front. He hadn’t even bothered looking up. Apparently he recognized the weathered, dingy bedspread covering him. He recognized home.

 

“I don’t know,” Dean needled, “it’s much easier hauling your ass around in its new… _eco_ -friendly package.”

 

_This_ had Sam looking up. “Tell me you’re joking.”

 

“And, come on, Bobby,” Dean turned towards their old family friend, “how adorable is he? He’s practically a babe magnet now. Single father raising his kid all alone. Chicks fall all over that shit. I’d be a hero to them. Superdad by day. Batman by night.”

 

“Dean.” A warning.

 

“Come on, Sam,” he cajoled. “I’ll pay you in lollipops and candy canes.”

 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice was calm, but dangerously low as he mustered everything he had to look threatening in his new…body. “I may barely reach your navel now, but I still know how to handle sharp objects. And I _will_ attack at eye level.”

 

Clearing his throat, Dean smartly stood and distanced himself from his brother while petulantly grumbling something about someone needing another nap.

 

Shaking his head, Bobby stepped in before fur began to fly. “Sam, do you remember anything strange about the leshii?”

 

“Other than the fact that it turned me into a child? No.”

 

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

 

“Killing it. There was this bright flash, then the next thing I knew I was flat on my back with a rather freaked looking Dean hovering over me.”

 

“ _Freaked_ is an understatement.” Bobby heard the older boy mutter from behind him.

 

“Then the spirits of the leshii’s victims started attacking and Dean _hijacked_ me and ran out of the cave.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Dean crossed his arms as he leaned against the doorframe, “You’re welcome.”

 

Bobby just looked back and forth between the two. “Are you sure this thing didn’t shrink _both_ of your _brains_? What’s with you two? You’re _both_ actin’ like a bunch of four-year-olds.”

 

They hung their heads. Truth was they were both worried—and each about the other. It would be harder for Dean to protect Sam this small. And it would be harder for Sam to save Dean if he were a child. And it was a well-known Winchester fact that concern brought out the ass in them.

 

Shaking his head, Bobby muttered something about ‘a bunch of girls’ and ‘seeing what he could find’ and left the room.

 

After Bobby’s retreat, Dean turned to Sam and asked boldly, “What’s _his_ problem?”

 

Sam just grinned sadly, picking at his bedspread. They both knew the answer to that. Bobby wasn’t immune to worry either.

 

“So uh,” Dean cleared his throat, pushing off the doorframe and walking back towards the bed with his hands in his pockets, “how you feelin’? … _other than_ small,” he hung out an olive branch and his brother took it.

 

“Alright, I guess,” Sam said with a weary sigh. “A bit hungry actually,” he added thoughtfully then started climbing out of bed…only to suddenly freeze.

 

“What?”

 

“Um...and naked.” He still had on his shirt and hoodie which technically covered his whole body, but no pants.

 

“Oh, uh…how ‘bout I run to the store for the new mini-you while Bobby fixes something to eat?”

 

“I can fix myself something, Dean,” Sam reminded him distractedly, tugging off the sheet and wrapping it around his tiny waist as he eased out of bed. “I’m not a kid.”

 

Dean couldn’t help but grin at his little brother’s bashfulness and…littleness.

 

Sam was about to tell him where he could shove that grin, when he got tangled in the sheet while half on/half off the bed and fell with an embarrassing squeak to the floor.

 

Biting his lip, Dean peered over the edge of the mattress, “You, ah, you alright there, Sammyboy?”

 

There was a dangerous pause, then, “Peachy.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

There are things one takes for granted being tall. Like being able to turn on the bathroom light without having to stand on your tippy-toes, or being able to wash your hands in the sink without needing to stack ancient, priceless books to do so, or even relieving yourself without fear of falling in and drowning.

 

A man’s ego can only take so much.

 

Precariously leaning over the sink while trying to wash his hands, Sam caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was so startled, fell backwards right off the books and onto the floor. _Falling_ , he had noticed, was becoming a nasty habit with him.

 

He knew he was small—that he looked four-years-old, but to actually _see_ that image looking back at you…? Restacking the books, Sam scrambled back up them.

 

_Holy shiii…_

Numbly, he brought a hand up and placed it against his reflection. Tiny hand to tiny hand.

 

_God…_

His hair was still longer, dark brown and shaggy as ever, nearly concealing his hazel eyes—but his eyes… His eyes were different. He just couldn’t figure out how yet.

 

With one hand still on the mirror, Sam brought the other one up to feel his face. So smooth, so young—not yet touched by puberty or marked by battle. Not yet worn by pain and loss. _That_ was the difference in his eyes he realized then.

 

 

Swallowing hard, Sam found himself mourning the boy before him. His entire life, he had always seemed to be reaching for that child, trying to hold onto that innocence.

 

But…

 

His fingers started to shake and he tightened them into a small fist. What good was he to Dean like _this_? How could he save his brother, get him out of the deal he made like _this_?

 

Even smaller now, in a world that was lately feeling too big to fight, Sam hung his head. _Now what?_ he grasped the glass, closing his eyes.

 

_Now what?_

 

Head down, hand still pressed tightly against his reflection…Sam reached for the man trapped inside the child.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Dean came back to find Sam sitting on the floor in the living room surrounded by books, eating chips and…drinking a beer. Jaw dropping, he just stood in the doorway. He knew Sam was technically old enough to drink, but seeing a four-year-old crack one open was just…wrong. “Sam,” he reproached.

 

“It’s holy water, Dean,” Sam said, not even looking up from his books.

 

Letting out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, Dean threw a bag of clothes at him. “I also got some kid friendly food.” He eyed the chips and …water. “Good thing, too.”

 

“I’m not a kid, Dean,” said the broken record.

 

“Yeah, well, your tummy is.”

 

Walking into the kitchen, Dean could practically hear Sam rolling his eyes. He smiled, his shoulders relaxing slightly for the first time since he left to get supplies—just incase it wasn’t as easy of a fix as they were hoping. He hadn’t wanted to leave Sam…but to be honest…Dean had needed some time to think, to get his mind caught up with current events. Seeing Sam four-years-old again had brought back a lot of memories—of their father, of their innocence—even Dean’s. Because when Sam was that young, Dean thought he could protect him from anything—and be around forever to do so. At that age, fathers were stronger than demons and could save their children from everything.

 

Even hell.

 

Clearing his throat and veering off that particularly less than sunshiny road, “Where’s Bobby?” He didn’t like the idea of him leaving Sam alone. His brother may still be a hunter, but whether Sam wanted to admit it or not, he was just a kid now.

 

“Out back in the shed searching for something,” Sam replied, still not bothering to look up from his books. “Don’t worry. Before he left he gave me strict instructions not to get any smaller.”

 

Dean nodded, “Good man,” and started unloading the groceries he had picked up.

 

“ _Tell me_ those aren’t Fruity Pebbles.”

 

“You used to love these when you were a kid,” Dean defended, but held up a hand to forestall the inevitable argument. “I got them just incase your taste buds relapsed along with the rest of your body. You used to be such a picky eater.”

 

“No. I just got tired of living off of beef jerky and M&Ms.”

 

“My point exactly.”

 

Sam snorted. Then _carefully_ standing so not to trip over his baggy clothes, grabbed the bag Dean had thrown at him. “If Sponge Bob is on anything in here, you’d better sleep with your eyes open tonight, brother.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Dean finished unpacking the mini-Sam arsenal and was waiting impatiently for his brother to finish changing. He hadn’t forgotten about his fever and wanted to make sure it had gone down…or he’d be running back to the store. “Sam!” he called for the third time. “What’s taking you so long? You’re worse than a girl!”

 

When Sam did finally come out of the bedroom, though, he wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. The older brother frowned. Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have only gotten shirts with phrases on them. He couldn’t help it, though. Plus, they were on sale. “Jus’ turn them inside out, Sam.”

 

“I…” Sam cleared his throat, embarrassed, “I can’t get it buttoned,” he muttered, looking everywhere other than at his brother, lowering his head.

 

Not following, Dean gave him a once-over. _Oh._ His eyebrows finally shot up in understanding. No wonder he wouldn’t meet his eyes. “No problemo.” Walking over, he leaned down and snapped the button with one hand. No need to make it awkward, right? It wasn’t the first time Dean has had to button his little brother’s pants for him…course, it had been awhile.

 

Keeping his head lowered, Sam’s studied the betraying digits. “My fingers…”

 

Just to be on the safe side, Dean gently took the little hands in his own and turned them over. “They don’t hurt or anything, right? Just—”

 

“Small,” Sam miserably pulled them out of his much larger grasp and walked back to his pile of books. “Thanks,” he added softly.

 

Dean nodded, not really knowing what to say. “How’s the fever?” He reached down and felt Sam’s forehead for himself, only to be slapped away. Gone. Good. “Let me know if you start feeling sick or weird…or smaller, okay?”

 

Sam tugged a huge book onto his lap—huge compared to the size he was now, anyway.

 

“Sam,”

 

“Okay.”

 

Dean started out to look for Bobby, but his brother stopped him. “Hey, Dean?”

 

“Yeah,” he turned back.  


“How’d you know what size to get?” The clothes fit perfectly.

 

Dean grinned, “Hey, this isn’t round two for just you, kiddo.” He turned to leave again, but, “Hey, Dean?”

 

“Yeah?” This time he was hit square in the face by a torpedoed pillow.

 

“That’s for the shirts.”

 

Well, at least the kid’s aim wasn’t compromised.

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Bobby came in the front door then, holding, what looked to Dean like some old maps. Reading Sam’s shirt, he shook his head and went straight into the kitchen. “Bunch of idgits.”

 

Dean smirked and Sam rolled his eyes before following after.

 

“Any luck?” Dean asked.

 

“That depends on what you mean by luck.”

 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Have you found out a way to change my brother back into a sasquatch?” he clarified needlessly.

 

“No.”

 

“I think I have something.” Sam came waddling in with a book that probably weighed as much as him. Dean caught him around the waist and grabbed it when Sam started to stumble backwards. “Jeezus, Sammy, take it easy,” Dean chastised. “You aren’t the Jolly Green Giant anymore.”

 

Sam ignored him and climbing onto a chair, stood on it so he could be…almost at eye level. “I don’t think it was a leshii we were hunting after all. I think it was a hobyah.”

 

Dean raised an eyebrow, “Like, _Lord of the Rings_?”

 

“No, Dean, those are _hobbits_ , and they’re the good guys.”

 

“Oh! The little guys,” he indicated by placing a hand waist high.

 

“Yeah,”

 

Dean grinned wickedly at him. “I guess that makes you a hobbit then,—especially with those big hairy feet, Samwise.”

 

Sam didn’t miss a beat, “Well, then I guess that would make you an orc, you big, smelly…”

 

“Nah, I’m more like Aragorn.”

 

“Boys!” Bobby had been watching the exchange go back and forth and was starting to get dizzy. “Focus.”

 

“Sorry,” they simultaneously mumbled.

 

Taking a breath, Sam continued, “The hobyah are actually in the same family as the leshii. Practically brothers actually.”

 

“Oh, that’s great. A family that stays together eats humans together.” _Hello, Benders…_

_“But_ ,” Sam continued, “the hobyah, so goes the lore anyway, are said to have eaten adults and _kidnapped_ children.”

 

Dean furrowed his brow. “There were no missing children reported in that area, Sam. Only adults. And that doesn’t explain how, or why you were changed.”

 

“Yeah, it might actually…sort of, anyway.”

 

Dean raised an eyebrow, “Well, are you going to share with the rest of the class?” he asked when it didn’t look like his brother was going to continue anytime soon.

 

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Sam seemed to snap back into himself. “When I first did the research, I found that over the last hundred years or so, about a dozen skeletons have been found in that area—which wouldn’t be surprising to authorities, it’s pretty rough terrain. But get this,” he continued, “I just dug a little deeper and found out that _most_ of those skeletons? …were children. I guess they just figured they wandered away from their parents or something…”

 

Dean just stared at him. “I’m still not following you.”

 

“What if,” Bobby chimed in, thinking aloud, “the skeletons _were_ the adults, after all?”

 

“Exactly,” Sam pointed at him, sitting his down-sized butt on the table. “And, I bet if we searched those caves we’d find more.”

 

“So…the _kids’_ remains they found were _actually_ the remains of the grown-ups that went missing,” Dean clarified.

 

“That’s my guess.”

 

“Okay, but _why_ ,” Dean pressed, “if you’re going to settle down for a few meals only every decade or so, would you trade a bigmac…for chicken nuggets?”

 

Sam gave him a look. “Nice.” But relented, “I have no idea.”

 

“Well, I don’t know the _why_ , but I may know the _how_.” Bobby laid the old hand-drawn maps he’d been holding out onto the table. “That Mountain you boys were in has a legend of its own…”

-

-

-

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Dean snorted, but Bobby gave him a steady look. “Oh, come on! You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? Isn’t that supposed to be in Florida, anyway?”

 

“Believe what you want, Dean, but you’re once taller brother is now looking _up_ at you from a three foot frame.”

 

“Three and a half,” Sam piped in matter-of-factly, lifting his chin and crossing his arms. He had checked.

 

Dean just stared dumbfounded. “The Fountain of Youth? _The_ Fountain of Youth?” he repeated incredulously. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

“But why didn’t my mind revert too?” Sam asked, ignoring his brother.

 

“I’m not saying this is what changed you. I’m suggesting that it’s _possible_ the hobyah channeled its power through it.”

 

“Can it really do that, Bobby?” Sam asked, huge eyes full of both wisdom and youth peering up at him from under unruly bangs.

 

The older man shrugged. “I really have no idea, kiddo, _but_ , I’ve seen crazier things.” Eyes narrowing, he studied Sam closer. “And I’m lookin’ at one of ‘em right now.”

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

The next thing Sam knew Dean was shaking him awake. He must have fallen asleep reading on the couch.

 

“Bobby’s out trying to get more info on the mountain and I need to run and get you some cold meds.”

 

Sam blinked blearily up at him, “Ooookay, couldn’t you have just left me a note or something?”

 

“Maybe,” Dean conceded, “if I were crazy enough to leave you here by yourself.”

 

 _Oh. That’s right._ Sam pinched the bridge of his little nose between his thumb and index finger. God his head hurt. He just wanted to go back to sleep. “What if I promise not to put a knife in the toaster?”

 

“I’d consider it, but Bobby’s all out of _Mr. YUCK_ stickers.”

 

Sam groaned, “I hate you,” but sat up, pushing off the covers someone must have thrown over him. He sniffled and his nose made that annoying squeaky sound again. Damnit.

 

Dean frowned when he heard it, but walked away. “Well, hate me in the car. I’m starved. Let’s go.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

To Sam’s surprise, it was going on seven o’clock. His four hour nap did nothing to make him feel better, though. In fact, he felt worse. He was definitely coming down with something. Great.

 

Though the air and sun were warm on his skin, Sam shivered as he stepped outside and Dean didn’t miss it. “Cold?”

 

“Yeah,” he surprised himself by admitting.

 

“I think I got you a mini-hoodie, didn’t I?”

 

Sam shrugged. He couldn’t remember, and Dean was already heading back inside to check anyway. He sighed. This was really happening. He really was truly…a child. Looking down the length of his new body, he made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl. They really didn’t have time for this shiii...

Stiffening, Sam sensed something close. Immediately, he reached for the gun…that wasn’t there, and rolled his eyes at the image of a 9mil tucked in his _Lightning McQueen_ waistband. Slowly turning empty handed, his already huge hazel eyes widened when they landed on the beast. He’s been hunting over half his life, but nothing could have prepared him for what happened to him next.

 

In a flash of teeth and hot breath, he was pinned to the ground. Heart hammering in his chest, Sam looked up into huge black eyes and instantly paled. It was at least three times bigger than him. He didn’t have a chance.

 

As it went to strike again, Sam squeezed his eyes tightly shut… and yelped when it dug its gigantic wet nose into his side. Squirming, Sam squeaked in surprise under the attack. The Rotweiler/Mastiff mix was mercilessly tickling him with her snout—somehow knowing exactly where his most sensitive spots were.

 

“Deeeeean!” Sam cried, squealed…whatever, “Deaaaan!” He’d never get out of this on his own. Not that it mattered, because he was never gonna live it down anyway.

 

Storming outside at his brother’s calls, Dean relaxed at the sight, lowering his weapon. “Looks like Lazarus found the new squeaky toy,” he sauntered over with a shit-eating grin, tucking the gun back in his waistband.

 

“Get it,” giggle, “off of,” squeak, “ **me**!” Sam demanded as best he could.

****

“Oooone sec,” Set to camera _,_ Dean held his cell phone up, “lemme…”

 

“Dean!”

 

“Alright, alright,” he snapped it shut. “Come on, Kujo, snack times over,” Dean pulled the dog off, but not before it got a few good licks down the entire length of Sam’s cheek.

 

Dean tried to keep a straight face as his little brother lay spent, panting on the ground, limbs spread every which way. “You okay?”

 

“I feel…” Sam finally managed breathlessly after a long moment, “like I’ve just been taken through a drool-powered car wash—without the car…or the objective of clean.”

 

“Ew.”

 

Sam looked down at his _“_ _Big Kid under Construction”_ tee-shirt. It was covered in drool and dirt…and doggy snot.

 

“Dude, you are so not getting in my car like that.”

 

Sam plopped his head back onto the ground, still breathing heavily from the…attack. He’s battled demons, witches and evil spirits galore, but he was…

 

Dean snickered, disappearing back into the house to get Sam another shirt. “Taken out by Lassie.”

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

Samuel Winchester, ex-college student and current demon hunter, in a four-year-old’s body, hopped out of the Impala and tried to close the passenger side door. After nearly bursting a vein straining, using all of his body weight, not to mention leverage from the curb, he finally succeeded.

 

Breathless, he glared at the door. Heavy-ass piece of…

 

“Sammy? She only talks to me, bro,” his brother misinterpreted his staring.

 

Rolling his eyes, Sam turned, and squinting into the setting sun stepped onto the sidewalk with “ _Grandma’s love bug”_ displayed across his chest complete with little hearts. If it had a teddy bear on it, it would have been stuffed down his brother’s throat. He zipped his hoodie up to cover it. _“Finding Nemo”_ was the lesser of two evils in his opinion.

 

He’d be salting and burning all of his little clothes once this was over.

 

“What are you hungry for?”

 

“Nothing really.”

 

“You have to eat something, Sammy. You’re a growing boy.”

 

“Jerk.”

 

“Language, Samuel,” Dean chided, subconsciously herding his little brother against his side as shoppers crowded the sidewalk. There was some sort of town-wide sale going on and there were a lot more people crowding the street than usual.

 

Sam felt like he was walking against a herd of elephants. They just plowed past him at a high rate of speed that was beginning to make him lightheaded. He was sure to be trampled.

 

Sure enough, one second he was standing and the next he was on the ground and Dean was calling someone a jackass. Hands under his armpits, he was brought back to his feet at a dizzying speed.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t seem him there,” said a man apologetically.

 

Sam closed his eyes, humiliated. God, it sucked being small.

 

“You okay?”

 

Opening them, he looked up at his slightly agitated, always worried brother. “If I stomp my foot right now, will you promise not to judge me?”

 

Dean snorted, straightening back up. “Come on, Squeaks,” he lightly cupped the back of Sam’s head and Sam hovered even closer to his leg as they continued down the sidewalk, too preoccupied with not getting run over to notice the new nickname…or the fact that Dean was guiding him…like the small child he was.

  

~*~*~*~

 

“Do we have to eat here?” Sam asked—borderline whined, taking fistfuls of the seat’s vinyl and hauling himself up into a booth. Dean had already taken his seat, knowing his help would have been refused anyway. “Can’t we take it back to Bobby’s?” Sam hated being out in public like this. He felt too vulnerable. And, though he’d never admit it—a bit intimidated. _You’re twenty-four-years old, Sam,_ he reminded himself.

 

“No, because once we get back to Bobby’s you’re going to bury your nose in a book again and conveniently forget to eat.”

 

“Dean,” Sam said, barely keeping the impatience out of his voice, “I’m _allowed_ to forget to eat. I’m an adult, remember?”

 

Dean just looked at him, all three and a half feet of him. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means,” he said, then turned to flag down a waitress.

 

Sam would have kicked him under the table…if he could reach.

  

~*~*~*~

 

Humiliation. That was the current undefeated heavyweight champ of his life as of… thirteen… _God, only thirteen?_ hours ago. After paying for their meals, to Dean’s undisguised amusement, the older waitress had handed him a lollipop and given his butt a quick pinch with a loud _boop._ Stunned, Sam had wordlessly turned to walk away with the candy. She practically chased him out of the damn building then, making weird noises and grabby fingers the entire way to the door.

 

He was forced to go for the shins again when Dean offered to go back inside to get her number for him.

 

His brother was enjoying this _way_ too much.

 

The screeching of tires and a deafening horn and Sam found himself violently flying backwards through the air and tucked against Dean’s side. Walking out of the diner, he couldn’t see over the parked cars, and being distracted, nearly got hit by a moving one.

 

He sighed. His second childhood was turning out to be just as traumatizing as the first. Held against his annoyingly bigger and stronger brother’s side, long brown bangs concealed the embarrassment in Sam’s eyes. “Heh”

 

“Yeah, _heh_ ,” Dean mocked angrily, “I’ll remember that next time when I’m scrapping your body off a car’s grill.” He loosened his grip on Sam a little and now the boy dangled from a single arm looped around his waist.

 

Sam deflated, boneless, tired and fed-up, “Are you gonna put me down?”

 

“Let’s just get across the street first,” Dean said, waiting for the cars to pass.

 

Oh, hell no. “ _Dean_ , put. me. **down** ,” Sam grated through clenched teeth. He was tempted to start kicking his feet…but then he’d _really_ look like a four-year-old.

 

This time his brother acted like he didn’t even hear him.

 

Sam let his head drop. Momentarily defeated he just hung there like a wet noodle. He felt like such a helpless ass. There was no way Dean was going to put him down now. Not when he was in big brother mode. The only thing… An evil grin met Sam’s lips. “I will puke in your car, man.”

 

Dean stiffened…then dropped him like a sack of potatoes—making sure, at least, that he landed on his feet. “Jerk,” Sam huffed, straightening.

 

“Wee-bitch.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

After getting his cold meds—and wasn’t that a fun experience, they were _finally_ headed back to the car. Walking across the artificially lighted street, Sam’s _Thrift_ sneakers were just reaching the sidewalk when he suddenly found himself in Dean’s arms again.

 

“Damnit, Dean,” he cursed. “We’re on the _sidewalk._ The **sidewalk!** Put me down!” he squirmed.

 

“Keep your mouth shut and I’ll give you five bucks,” Dean whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

 

Brow furrowed, Sam looked up...and rolled his eyes. “No.”

 

“Sam,”

 

“NO!” he pushed with all his might against his brother’s chest. He was going home. His _McQueen’d_ asswas going home, home, home, home, **_home_** _._

 

“Come on, Sammy, she might know somethin’.” Dean didn’t seem to have a problem at all hanging on to the squirming four-year-old.

 

 

She was almost to them and though Sam knew Dean wasn’t going to ask her about a mountain that was an hour away, he also knew his brother would make his life a living hell if he didn’t cooperate. He stopped struggling. “Make it twenty, or I start screaming now.”

 

“Extortionist.”

 

“Look whose talkin’”

 

“Hi!” Dean put on the insta-smile, adjusting Sam in his arms. Already bored, Sam turned to look over his brother’s shoulder. God he was tired. And his headache was getting worse. He just wished the day would end already. He knew he could tell Dean how sick he was really feeling and they’d be out of there before Sam could blink, but he figured he’d give his brother this one. After all, if Sam couldn’t…

 

If he couldn’t…

 

Sam forced the thought way. He _would_ save his brother. No matter how small he was.

 

Before he knew it though, without meaning to, he slowly started to melt into said brother’s warm arms, his head coming to rest in the crook of Dean’s neck. When he felt the woman, who introduced herself as Emma, lay her hand against his forehead, he lethargically turned and propped his chin on Dean’s shoulder.

 

“He has a fever,” the woman said, and he felt Dean’s arms tighten around him just a little more. Sam knew he was done flirting.

 

“Yeah, the poor kid has a darn head cold, not to mention some _serious_ diarrhea.” Dean jerked and bit his lip to hold back a yelp when Sam sunk his teeth into his shoulder. “I’d better get him home.”

 

“You take care of him,” she said, coming around and lightly pinching Sam’s cheek before she left. Sam rolled his eyes. Damn his pinch-able cheeks.

 

Lightly squeezing him, Dean shrugged the shoulder Sam was using as a pillow “Sammy?”

 

Sam could hear the worry and guilt in his voice. After all, he was still in his arms, not demanding to be put down the moment Dean’s after-dinner mint sauntered off.

 

He wanted to get down. He did. He felt ridiculous. But he was also feeling _miserable_. And Dean’s warmth?... felt good…and safe. After a moment’s hesitation, he pushed away and Dean let him gently slide down his body. “You okay?”

 

“Just tired,” he answered automatically, shivering from the lack of body heat. He relented when Dean gave him a look. “And I have a headache.”

 

With a frown, “Come on, little man let’s get you back to Bobby’s,” Dean shuffled him towards the car.

 

It was the best idea Sam had heard all day.

  

~*~*~*~

 

Sam had fallen asleep not five minutes into the drive and Dean’s eyes shifted between the darkened road and his brother. He couldn’t help but wonder what their dad would do right now if he were still alive. Probably shit a brick, he thought with a grin.

 

Sam would probably already be back to his original and unfair size actually. Or maybe not. Dean was realizing more and more lately that their father hadn’t always had the right answers after all.

 

Still…he ached to have him back. He ached and missed the irrational feeling of safety when he was near. He also missed and longed for that second string of defense when it came to protecting his brother. …because Dean was first string, of course. He always had been. He always…

 

Startled by his ringing cell phone, Dean cursed. Reaching in his pocket for it, “Yeah,” he answered gruffly.

 

“How’s the runt?”

 

“Tiny and tired.” He glanced to the right of him. “You find anything?”

 

“Yeah, but you’re not gonna like it.”

 

“We’ll be there in five.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

“It was a spell that changed Sam?”

 

“Yup and a powerful one at that,” Bobby said, watching as said boy wearily climbed into the kitchen chair. It didn’t look like the nap he’d taken in the car had done him much good.

 

“Soooo, not the Fountain of Youth then?” Dean asked. “The legend was wrong?”

 

Bobby cocked his head to the side. “Depends on how you look at it.”

 

“Well, that’s a good thing, right? We’ll find a counter-spell and _poof_ , sasquatch.”

 

“This ain’t _Charmed_ , Dean. You can’t just mix a bunch of spells together and throw a little fairy dust on the boy. Not with this. There are actually _two_ spells we have to find. One to figure out the exact components Sam will specifically need to be turned, and the other to _hopefully_ change him back. And _then_ there’s still the little problem of finding someone actually powerful enough to perform it.”

 

“Oh.”

“And that’s assuming it can be reversed. From what I’m gathering…” Bobby lowered his head, shaking it. The worry he’d been trying to keep at bay, away from the boys was taking a one-way ticket to the surface. “You boys can sure pick ‘em, that’s for sure,” he said bleakly.

 

“Bobby, what?”

 

“From what I’m gathering, these hobyah of yours used to be human. And they weren’t exactly upstanding citizens either if you get my drift.” At Dean’s questioning look he continued, “Warlocks. And I’m not talkin’ your Wiccan variety either. My guess is somethin’ went wrong a crap load of years ago. I dunno, maybe they got what was comin’ to them or something.”

 

“Oookay,” Dean said slowly, “so why the, _Honey, I Shrunk the Kids_?”

 

Bobby’s eyes turned to Sam…who was lookin’ like a stiff wind could knock him over. “This thing wasn’t lookin’ to feed off _meat_ when it changed Sam into a kid, Dean,” he said grimly, looking back up into narrowed eyes. “He was fixin’ to feed off your brother’s innocence.”

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

Through half lidded eyes, Sam just looked back and forth between the two. He couldn’t seem to concentrate, or summon up enough energy to even care right now. He was just so tired. And his head…Wordlessly, he turned and slid out of his seat.

 

“Sammy?”

 

Despite his brother’s worried calls, he didn’t stop until he was curled up in bed.

 

“Sam?” The mattress dipped under Dean’s weight.

 

“I’m fine,” was Sam’s automated, unconvincing reply.

 

“We’ll fix this, okay,” was Dean’s automated, unconvincing reply as he handed Sam a little plastic cup of cold medicine.

 

Wordlessly swallowing it, Sam handed it back and turned on his side away from Dean. He was the one supposed to be telling his brother that.

  

~*~*~*~

 

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Dean then let it drop in his lap. “So, what now?” he asked softly, despairingly—eyes never leaving his brother as Bobby leaned in the doorway.

 

“We figure out how to change him back,” the older man replied.

 

Dean snorted, “If only it were that easy, right?” Watching his little brother sleep, so vulnerable, so little and littler still when curled into his barely four foot frame, Dean licked his bottom lip, “Bobby…” he started thickly, only to be cut off.

 

“Get some sleep, son. It’s been a hell of a day for you too.” 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Swinging his legs from the chair he sat on, Sam ate his _Fruit Loops_.

 

“You look like you’re feelin’ better this morning,” Dean said, coming into the kitchen, which was bathed in morning sunlight and blinding the hell out of him. He had managed to get some rest, but ended up spending most of the night watching his brother sleep and looking for the spells they needed.

 

Sam still had that squeaky quality to his breathing, but appeared to be a lot more alert than the previous day. Dean was trying hard not to show his disappointment that yesterday wasn’t just some horribly fudged up dream in the first place.

 

Sam merely nodded at his observation, munching on his cereal contently, swinging his legs back and forth. Something was off, though. Something had activated Dean’s radar. Looking at the scene more closely as he poured his own bowl of cereal—why the hell not, might as well treat himself— Dean noticed that there weren’t any books on the table…or, for that matter, a laptop. Dean couldn’t remember a time Sam hadn’t done research while eating—and considering what was on the line…

 

He was about to ask what gives when his smaller half spoke for the first time that morning. “Where’s dad?”

 

Two words. Two innocently asked words had Dean’s heart stuttering in his chest. He nearly dropped the milk he had just picked up. “What?”

 

Unaware of his brother’s distress, the little boy pushed a fruit loop back onto his spoon when it came too close to falling off. “He said he’d be back last night. Where’d he go?” Swing. Swing. Swing.

 

Just as Dean was about to start _really_ freaking out, something seemed to click. Sam’s legs stopped swinging with the abandonment of youth and the twenty-four-year-old looked up at him through a four-year-old’s eyes again, brows immediately furrowing, “Dean? You alright, man?”

 

“Am I…?” With a look of undisguised fear and disbelief, Dean numbly lowered himself into the chair beside his brother. “Sam, you just asked me where dad was.”

-

-

-

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

 

“What’s happening, Bobby?” Dean paced the kitchen.

 

Sam had, at first, denied asking about their father, but the look on Dean’s face was proof enough. Simultaneously they had yelled for the older man.

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted wearily. “Sam, you don’t remember asking about your dad?”

 

“No. Last I remember was going to bed.” Still sitting in the same chair, food forgotten, Sam was hugging his little knees to his chest—truly looking the age he currently was. “What’s this mean, Bobby?” Young, troubled eyes gazed up at him. “Am I really turning into a kid now?”

Taking off his worn cap and scratching the back of his head, Bobby didn’t have the answers the boys sought and it pained him in a way he was still getting used to. Shaking his head, “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I don’t know.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

Sitting in the kitchen, Dean sighed, kneading his neck muscles. It had been three days since Sam had first asked for their dad. _Three_. And he had lost track of how many times his brother’s mind had fluctuated between an adult’s and a child’s since then. As quickly as a turn of a switch, Sam would go from spouting theories and doing research, to watching cartoons and wanting to cuddle.

 

…of course, Dean smirked, if he really thought about it, he wasn’t so different after all.

 

Once though, Sam had asked Dean why he was so big. It had never even occurred to him that his own little brother might not recognize him. And that scared him. A lot. Luckily, Sam knew him by more than just his good looks and for now was satisfied with, “Why are you so short?” as a reply.

 

Still, every…episode, just left Dean feeling more and more helpless…and surprisingly torn. Helpless, because he was losing the brother he knew a little more every day to something he couldn’t even see to fight. And _torn,_ because…after struggling _all of_ his life to preserve at least a fragment of his brother’s innocence…was he really going to be the one that took his second chance at it away?

 

Dean watched as Sam, or ‘Sammy’ as they had come to refer to him in this state, stacked shotgun shells in front of the TV, humming quietly to himself the theme from an old 80’s cartoon Dean had long ago forgotten. Tears rushed to blur Dean’s vision, but he quickly blinked them away. It was getting harder to do so, though as the days passed. It was getting harder to believe they’d be able to change Sam back. Especially since they couldn’t find an ounce of evidence documented that proved the second spell—the one to actually change his brother back, even existed.

 

And if they can’t…

 

If they couldn’t…

 

He raised Sam since he was six months old and he thought he had done a pretty damn good job of it too. Sam has always been his responsibility. Always. Four, or twenty-four years old, Dean has always looked out for him. Still, he was confident…he had to believe the _adult_ Sam could look after himself once…

 

But if…

 

But if they can’t fix this… turn Sam _back_ …

 

Dean wasn’t going to be there this time to look after his brother. Not with Hell Hounds on his tail.

 

It was a double-edged sword. To be able to raise Sam again—to continue to protect him as he grew up again, Dean would have to find a way out of his deal…but if he even _tried_ to do that, Sam would die.

 

Leaning forward, Dean cupped his face in his hands. He could feel the figurative sword pressing in on him, gutting him and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. The threat of failure often did that to him…especially when it came to Sam.

 

Because soon, he feared, the only thing he’d be able to do for his brother …was die.

 

Waddling into the kitchen lugging a book, said little brother plopped it loudly onto the table, snapping Dean out of his thoughts like a slap to the face. He was ‘big boy Sam’ again. Dean smirked faintly, sitting back in his seat. The first time he called him that, he got a _Fruit Loop_ in the eye. Those bitches sting.

 

“Thanks for giving me something at least manly to play with,” the man trapped inside a boy’s body grunted, climbing into the chair.

 

Dean grinned, watching him pull himself up. “No sweat. I wanted to give you the gun too, but Bobby wouldn’t let me.”

 

Settling his tiny butt into the seat, Sam paused to gape up at him. “How I survived the first time, I have no idea,” he said, shaking his head in awe.

 

Dean just looked mischievous as he tried to push aside the rising concerns for his brother’s future, as he tried to push down the boiling guilt. Clearing his throat and scratching behind his ear, “So, find anything?” he asked.

 

“No. You?”

 

“Well, while you were playing _Bob the Builder_ over there…” Sam didn’t disappoint by rolling his eyes. “I may have _finally_ found the spell to locate the components we’ll need for the super spell…once we find _that,_ anyway,” he added, as much for his own benefit as Sam’s. They hadn’t told him what they found…or _hadn’t_ found actually.

 

“ _Super_ spell?” A tiny eyebrow rose that was more adorable to Dean than sarcastic, “That’s the best you could come up with?”

 

“Well, it’s either that, or, _“Turn Sammy Back into a Big Boy”_ spell,” Dean replied cheekily.

 

Sam blinked. “Good choice.”

 

More like a fear of Fruit Loops. Was that odd for a grown man? 

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Sam or Sammy?” Bobby asked as Dean joined him outside.   


“Sam,” Dean answered. “I gotta say, though, Sybil got nothing on that kid.”

 

Bobby grinned crookedly. “Sybil had a bucket load of personalities crammed into that head of her’s, son. _Sam_ is the only personality in that little body. His mind, for some reason, just keeps gettin’ a little confused on what year it is.”

 

“Ah, a _little_?”

 

Bobby shrugged. “Could be worse.”

 

“How?” Dean demanded.

 

“We could have a mini- _you_ runnin’ around,” Bobby replied easily.

 

Shaking _that_ particular image immediately out of his head, “Anyway,” Dean started flipping through one of the books he’d been carrying around religiously since the…downsizing. “I think I might have found the component spell.”

 

Neither man commented on the second spell. The one they knew they’d never find.

  

~*~*~*~

 

Still sitting at the kitchen table, Sam lowered his head into his arms. His headaches were getting worse. They used to taper off for a bit right after his…Sammy…episodes, then increasingly build up til the next time, but now the pain was becoming a constant, and nearing the big _V_ worse. He shuddered at the thought. He hadn’t had a vision since before he…died. And he was white-knuckle hoping that that part of their lives was behind them.

 

Not that the cosmic powers didn’t make up for it in other ways. He flexed his ankles and weren’t surprised when his feet didn’t even reach the floor. He sighed.

 

He had no memories whatsoever of his ‘Sammy’ moments. One second he’d be reading Latin, trying to focus through his pounding head, and the next he’d be stacking shotgun shells or, even worse, snuggled up in Dean’s lap.

 

Just kill him now.

 

He’d better go through their cell phones and make sure no one was snappin’ pictures. Sometimes he wished Dean could deny his puppy-dog eyes and just say no to cuddling. This whole experience was humiliating enough as it was.

 

Still, it wasn’t all for naught. Hopefully.

 

“Headache?”

 

“Little one,” he lied after a moment. He hadn’t even heard Dean come back in. The next thing he knew he was being handed a glass of water and a _baby_ aspirin. He groaned, half squeaked, “Don’t we have anything stronger?” he asked, not for the first time.

 

“Not for you.”

 

Sighing, he swallowed the pill and laid his head back down waiting for it to kick in so he could hit the books again—unless, of course, he fell asleep first. Damn his little body. His brother’s worried gaze burned through the back of his neck, though. “Keep staring at me like that,” he said grumpily from between folded arms, “and I’ll claw your eyeballs out.”

 

Dean chortled, but went to take a seat beside him. “I’d like to see you try, _SammySamSqueakerson_.”

 

Ignoring the jibe and one of many new nicknames, “Don’t underestimate me, Dean. I may be smaller, but I’m also closer to the ground now.”

 

“Yeah, and?”

 

“I’m built for speeeed.”

 

It was the first time Sam had heard Dean outright laugh in a very, _very_ long time. Despite the jackhammer in his head, he grinned into his arm…but it quickly faded.

 

Would Dean ever forgive him? 

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Sammy,” Dean admonished gently, looking up from his book. “Lazarus isn’t a pony…despite her size.” Though he found it funny that Sammy wasn’t nearly as intimidated of her as _Sam_ was.

 

Sammy patted the massive dog’s haunches from his mounted position on her. “I know she’s not a pony, Dean. She’s a _lion_ and I tamed her,” he said proudly.

 

Dean’s eyebrow rose. “What are you, the _Lion Whisperer_ now?”

 

“No, I’m Superman. See,” he turned to show off his cape—formerly known as Dean’s leather jacket.

 

Dean’s eyebrows rose even further, but he decided not to question why Superman would be riding a lion…or why the hell it always had to be _his_ jacket he needed to act like a superhero. This was Sam after all. A _four-year-old_ Sam. “Yeah, well, do me a favor and make sure _Simba_ there doesn’t get snot all over that cape of yours.”

 

Sammy slid off his ride and placed his little hands on both sides of Lazarus’ gigantic, drool-covered cheeks. “You wouldn’t do that, now would you girl?” he crooned. She nudged his chin in response and he ended up on his butt, giggling.

 

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, Dean turned his attention back to the latest book Bobby gave him before running out to get what they needed for the first spell.

 

As far as they knew, Sam was supposed to be turned into a child—body and mind, straight from the beginning. Why it didn’t happen that way just posed more questions they didn’t have time to answer right now. Right now all their energy was going into turning him _back_. No matter how hopeless it was. Every day Dean was losing more and more of his brother…to yesterday.

 

Dean couldn’t help but wonder, though, as he watched as Sammy suddenly abandoned his game with the…lion to crouch down and start drawing something in the dirt—what it was like for him? The four-year-old. Did he notice the blank moments in time where he went from playing with shotgun shells to having his nose buried in a book? He never asked any questions other than where their dad was and why Dean was so big. He never seemed confused when coming back to himself. It literally seemed like he just snapped back and instantly ran off to play.

 

It was weird.

 

The story of their lives.

 

When his brother started talking a mile a minute, still drawing in the dirt, Dean walked over to him, brow furrowed as he approached warily, not knowing what to expect anymore.

 

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back,” the boy said as Dean knelt down beside him, book dangling between his knees

 

Dean gave a cursory glance around them. “Who?”

 

Still smiling, dimples showing, Sammy continued to draw in the dirt. “Dad,” he said simply.

 

Before Dean could find his voice again, Bobby pulled in and with a squeal of delight, the supposed-future-leader-of-a-demon-army ran in the opposite direction to hide—leather cape flapping behind him.

 

Stepping out of the car, Bobby set the last of the supplies for the first spell on the hood. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

 

Heart pounding, Dean’s body felt numb and he nearly dropped the book as he straightened and turned in the direction his little brother had torn off in. _One of us might have_ , he thought to himself. That, or not only was Sam’s mind regressing…it was also failing. He looked to Bobby, green eyes beseeching, “Do you think,” he started hoarsely, swallowing, “I mean, you were there when dad…when he…”

 

“Dean?” Now he had the older man looking worried.

 

A loud roar announced Sammy’s presence before the kid even leapt off the junked car and into Bobby’s arms.

 

Closing his eyes, Dean shook his head. He really needed to teach the boy some stealth.

 

Sammy was beaming, though, little arms wrapped around Bobby’s neck. “Did I scare you, Uncle Bobby? Did I scare you this time?”

 

Dean still wasn’t used to seeing the older man’s face soften asmuch as it did every time ‘Sammy’ was present. “You sure did, kiddo! Have you been working on your roar?”

 

The boy nodded, obviously pleased with himself. And Dean’s stomach churned.

  

~*~*~*~

 

Sammy was back in the living room playing, leather jacket still doubling as a cape while Dean and Bobby prepared for the first spell.

After three days they were finally making some progress, but the mood in air was solemn. The second spell remained outside of their grasps…if it even existed, and the first just seemed pointless without it.

 

…and the truth they were building up to, unbearable…at least for Dean.

 

He had even considered summoning Ruby, but he had no way of knowing if her loyalties would shift if suddenly her boy king…was really just a boy.

 

It wasn’t a risk Dean was willing to take.

 

Their movements were strained as they wordlessly set about their task…because they both knew, deep down where they allowed it to hurt—that they were never going to find a way to change Sam back. Still, blindly, methodically they pressed forward. What else was there to do?

 

“Are you going to tell me what’s beatin’ around in that skull of your’s, or are you gonna make me guess?” Bobby asked out of nowhere.

 

Dean canted his head to the side. There was about a million things actually. He decided, though, to ask the question he’d been dreading since the whole nightmare had started. Picking up the chalice, he lightly fingered it as he searched for the strength to say the words that would literally tear him in two. Still, he had to know. He had to be sure. Just in case.

 

“What is it, boy?” There was that softness again to Bobby’s voice Dean was hearing more and more often lately…since Sam had died. And Dean with him.

 

“Bobby,” he finally started hoarsely. Clearing his throat, he numbly lowered the chalice before forcing his voice on—even as his heart screamed and threw itself wildly against his chest. “I need you to do something for me.”

 

Grey eyes narrowed, but the older man didn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he said softly.

 

“If…if we can’t make Sammy big again…” Swallowing, Dean bowed his head and gripped the kitchen chair beneath his fingers until his knuckles turned white. It wasn’t something he could accept, but he knew…he knew it was something he needed to prepare for. Desolately, he looked up at the only person other than his brother that he considered family. “I need…”

 

Suddenly knowing where the conversation was taking them, Bobby sighed and looked away. “Dean—”

 

“Please, Bobby,” Dean’s voice broke under the weight of the hardest thing he’s ever had to do—relinquish his responsibility for Sam over to someone else. “I need you to promise me.”

 

“Don’t you think he’d be better off—?”

 

“No, I don’t.” Dean interrupted steadily. Only one person would have been able to detect the hitch in his voice…and he was making a pyramid out of ancient texts in the next room. “Listen, I’ve thought about this. Sam would be safest with you. Lilith could still find him, still be after him. And I can’t…I can’t have people lookin’ out for him that don’t…” Words catching in his throat, flexing his jaw, he looked away when a tear came too close to falling, when his heart came too close to breaking.

 

“Don’t what?” Bobby ventured hesitantly, softly, eyes narrowed.

 

Dean met his eyes again and they were so full of raw pain and misplaced failure that it stole the older man’s breath away. But as he opened his mouth, a heart-stopping scream had both men grabbing a weapon and running.

 

“Sammy?” Dean ran straight to his brother as Bobby’s trained weapon and eyes scanned the room. “Sammy, what?”

 

The four-year-old had his head buried in his knees and was crying, but the second Dean’s hands touched him, he threw himself into his big brother’s arms. “Hey,” Dean soothed, kneeling. “It’s okay, I got ya. What’s wrong?”

 

But the boy just cried on, digging his little fingers into him.

 

“Sammy?” Dean tried again, arms wrapped protectively around his baby brother as he watched Bobby for any signs of trouble. “Come on, little brother. You can tell me.” He didn’t think it was anything on TV that scared him. He was watching Diego, for cryin’ out loud. “What happened?” he prodded gently.

 

When Sammy finally spoke, it was so soft, so utterly broken that Dean almost hadn’t heard him. “You died.”

 

Breathless, the world instantly narrowed down to those two words and Dean found himself dizzy with what they could mean. Holding the trembling boy in his arms, his eyes sought out Bobby’s, but the man just looked as stunned and worried as he felt. A thousand possibilities were racing through Dean’s head. None of them he liked. It could be one of countless memories from Sam’s time trapped by the trickster. It could also be a _vision_ of Dean catching his ticket to hell. Suddenly, he didn’t know what to hope for. Visions right now were the _last_ thing they needed showing up again—especially with a four-year-old audience, especially since Dean had firsthand experience with how badly they hurt, but…if Sammy was remembering _Sam’s_ memories now…

 

“Please don’t die,” the four-year-old version of his brother whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

Dean closed his own eyes. The tremors were like a thousand needles in the heart. And the words…an echo he’s seen in Sam’s eyes over and over the last few months. “Sammy,” he willed his voice to be steady, reminding himself that he was dealing with his brother as _child_ right now. “I…” he found that he didn’t know what to tell him, though. _I’m not going anywhere_ was a lie and felt like a betrayal. “Are you hurt? Did it hurt?” he instead demanded thickly. If it had hurt his head…

 

A small nod and Dean swallowed… _hard_. “Where’d it hurt, Sammy?”

 

To Dean’s surprise though, his brother didn’t reach for his head. Instead, face buried in Dean’s neck, he wiggled a little hand in between their chests. “Your heart?”

 

Another small nod, and just as Dean was about to start panicking again…

 

“When you died,” came a whisper so soft, so mournful as warm breath and tears ran down Dean’s neck, “it hurt _here_.” A tiny hand fluttered between their chests.

 

Clenching his jaw, tears filling his own eyes, it was all Dean could do to hold onto him and not start screaming himself.

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

When _Sam_ opened his eyes, his little body was being held in his big brother’s crushing, rocking embrace. And, though it was fuzzy, he actually _remembered_ why. The trickster. The feel of his brother cooling in his arms.

 

His adult mind was blending more with the child’s then. He was getting worse.

 

Instead of pulling away, Sam actually stayed in Dean’s arms, not letting him know that he was _Sam_ again. Indulging in the fact that he could cling to his brother and Dean wouldn’t think anything of it—thinking the four-year-old was in charge, fresh tears met Sam’s eyes as he swayed to the rhythm of his brother’s comfort.

 

It was time.

 

“We’ll fix this, Sam,” Dean whispered with renewed conviction, somehow sensing him. “We will.”

 

Squaring his tiny trembling jaw, another thick, warm tear slid free.

 

_Not if I fix you first._

 

_-_

 

_-_

 

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

“Alalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala!” Sammy ran around the kitchen table, Lazarus’ Frisbee raised threateningly in one hand, Dean’s leather jacket flapping against his back. “Alalalalalalalalalalalala!”

 

“God, Sammy,” Dean groaned, washing a hand down his face as he stood at the table and tried to organize their supplies for a second time in one day. “I’m _beggin’_ you, _go_ **_outside_**.”

 

“Alalalalalalalalalala!” The four-year-old replied, bounding out the door, never losing his stride as Lazarus excitedly greeted him and made a failed attempt to reclaim her Frisbee.

 

Dean gave Bobby a dangerous look as he came in the same door a moment later. “I _cannot_ believe you let him watch, _Xena: Warrior Princess._ ”

 

Bobby shrugged indifferently. “There was nothin’ else on and all you asked was for me to _distract_ him while you got some air. Well, he was distracted.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean drawled sarcastically. “I didn’t realize I had to specify to _not_ turn my baby brother into a warrior _princess!_ ” He jerked a hand to point outside where Sammy was currently doing summersault after summersault on the ground, battle crying the entire time—still clinging to the Frisbee even as the mutt tugged playfully to get it free.

 

Bobby had to scratch his beard and cough to hide his laugh—clearing his throat when he could feel Dean’s eyes burning a hole through him. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Dean. You now how kids are—imitating everything.”

 

“Yeah, well, if he starts usin’ my jacket as a skirt, you’re paying for the therapy sessions.”

“Your’s or his?” Bobby replied cheekily, receiving a warning glare from the younger man before he turned back to regard the mess before him.

 

“It’s not in the car either,” Bobby said, “Though I coulda’ swore I had some.”

 

Dean halfheartedly poked through the supplies on the kitchen table for the tenth time. “Well, it’s not here,” he sighed tiredly, absently rubbing the back of his neck.

 

When Sammy ran under the kitchen window in full battle cry mode—the raised Frisbee zooming by all you could see, giving the older man a bitter look, Dean grabbed the baby aspirin and popped five in his mouth dry. Making a face, he rechecked the bottle.

 

“You’re not supposed to chew those ones, ya idgit,” Bobby pointed out, watching as he immediately spit them into the sink and grabbed a towel.

 

“Gawd, dat’s groth,” Dean complained, scrubbing the cloth down his tongue.

 

Bobby just shook his head. “And you’re worried about the boy doin’ some cartwheels.”

 

Lowering the towel, Dean gave him a withered look. In truth, he was going crazy on the inside—screaming at the top of his lungs...in an extremely non-Xena kind of way. He just wanted to fix this. He just wanted to save his brother, give him back his life… before…

 

Before…

 

Sam had slipped right back into Sammy-mode while he was still wrapped in Dean’s arms. It was the quickest transition yet. And it was frustrating and as emotionally draining as all hell. Luckily, either Sammy didn’t remember what had put him in Dean’s arm in the first place, or he was simply reassured by then, and with a brief squeeze climbed out of his arms and started flipping through Bobby’s limited channels.

 

And that’s where ten minutes of Xena had corrupted his little brother for life.

 

He’d find it a lot funnier if…

 

“Son?”

 

Dean looked up from the towel he’d been silently fingering—lost in thought, lost in worry.

 

“We’ll make this right,” the older man said, almost as if trying to convince himself.

 

Swallowing, Dean replied roughly, “We’d better.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

Finding himself running, Sam immediately stopped and looked up—head cocking, little brow furrowing at the Frisbee he clutched in his hands. His throat felt raw, as if he had been screaming and Dean’s coat was still hanging from his neck. “Oh, God,” he closed his eyes, shoulders falling, arm lowering. The last thing he remembered was the trickster and clinging to his brother. The last thing he remembered…

 

He was startled when Lazarus suddenly grabbed the Frisbee from his loose grasp and started prancing around him victoriously with it.

 

“Is it just wishful thinking that you were the only one that happened to see whatever it was I was doing?” he asked the dog hopefully, only to suddenly be bombarded with fragmented flashes of warrior cries and strategic battle moves he had, in all seriousness, made up for Bobby… and his camera. Sam groaned. Dean would _never_ let him live _this_ down.

 

Wearily, his legs folded and he eased his barely four-foot-constantly-headachy-self to the ground. “Do me a favor,” he told the mastiff/rottweiler mix in all seriousness as he lay flat, “make it quick and go for the heart first.”

 

“Sammy?!” He heard Dean call from across the yard, probably alarmed by the sudden lack of battle cries.

 

“It’s SAM!” he hollered back grouchily from his sacrificial position on the ground—though his voice ended up cutting out and squeaking where he needed the most emphasis. Of course that didn’t happen while he was screaming his head off defending the world with a damn Frisbee.

 

“Are you sure it’s not _Sammy: Warrior Princess_?!” came a wiseass call in return.

 

Bravely looking up into the dog’s massive eyes as she licked her chops, “Make sure there’s nothing left of the shirt,” Sam instructed.

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

With his _“My Big Brother is the Bestest!”_ tee-shirt still in one piece and with barely even any drool on it, stomping his feet, Sam made his way back to the house after being _ordered_ closer. If they were going to treat him like a four-year-old, he was gonna act like one. He paused. Maybe his and Sammy’s mind were melding in more ways than one. If possible, his shoulders dropped even more. “Son of a—”

 

“Sam?” Dean called tentatively, head peeking out the door.

 

“I’m fine, Dean,” he lied wearily, walking just as wearily the last few feet and plopping his _OshKosh_ butt down on the porch step. He sensed Dean hesitate—wanting to make him feel better, reassure him, talk about what had happened before Sammy took control again—but they were both getting past the point for empty words. Best save some for later, though. No doubt they’d need them.

 

“Well, squeak if you need anything,” he finally said, though unconvinced. “Bobby and I are right inside.”

 

Sam didn’t even bother rolling his eyes this time, he just waved him off. He knew Dean didn’t expect him to help. Their luck, he’d turn into Sammy in the middle of the preparation and start eating the concoctions anyway.

 

Besides, Sam needed some time to think. Tonight would have to be the night to follow through with his own plans…and he’d have to do it before Bobby and Dean did their’s. He was pretty sure he had everything he needed. Now he just had to get out from under his brother’s radar—which would prove to be the most difficult task yet, especially considering his current…situation and Dean’s heightened DEFCON level.

 

Sighing deeply, Sam picked up a stick Lazarus dropped expectantly for him and threw it. Their lives were so messed up. Former sasquatch, Sam was now only three and a half feet tall and was constantly being hijacked by who he was at the unfortunate cuddly age of four. And Dean…Dean had sold his soul and bought a ticket to hell to bring back said downsized and worthless Sam.

 

Yup. Messed up. But no longer could he find the humor in it. Not that he could ever find the humor in Dean selling his soul.

 

Sam brushed aside his bangs, revealing the exhaustion behind them and lightly fingered a folded page through his jean pocket.

 

It took all he had just to find the hope.

  

~*~*~*~

 

Bobby watched from the window as Sam played fetch with Lazarus—apparently, at some point he had made up with the mutt. He could tell the kid’s heart wasn’t in it, though. He seemed distracted—like something especially heavy was pressing in on those tiny shoulders. And Bobby could easily take a good guess at what.

 

Even as uncertain as Sam’s fate was right now, his concern went straight for his brother. A trait they shared to a fault.

 

He watched as, head down, Sam wearily brushed his bangs to the side. It was such a drastic, heartbreaking difference from the carefree boy somewhere deep inside him that posed for his camera just a few minutes ago.

 

It was such a heartbreaking difference between innocence and what was left once stripped away.

 

“Well, everything’s ready then… except for the sage,” Dean announced, pulling Bobby from his worried gaze. “Are you sure we can’t substitute it with anything else?”

 

Turning seasoned eyes to Sam’s older, chronically worried and currently taller brother, “Only if you don’t mind him turnin’ into a girl when we change him back,” Bobby replied casually.

 

Dean snorted, “Like we’d be able to tell the difference.”

 

Shaking his head with a crooked grin, Bobby looked back out the window, his grin instantly falling as Sam leaned into the dog, forehead to forehead as if for strength, and closed his eyes.

  

~*~*~*~

 

“Dude, you sound like a freakin’ broken record.”

 

“Pleeeease,” he begged anyway, turning on the _Sammy-eyes_. They were his best bet. This would be the perfect opportunity. He just prayed to whoever was listening that Sammy stayed away for awhile.

 

This was his only chance. No room for error. No time for hesitation. And he had the nausea to prove it.

 

“NO, Sam,” Dean repeated for the tenth time as he distractedly walked through the house looking for his keys. “And stop lookin’ at me like that,” he added, pointing a finger in Sam’s general direction as he searched.

 

“Like what?” Sam asked innocently, placing his hands behind his back, standing on his tippy-toes and dramatically batting his huge dewy eyes up at his brother.

 

Dean stopped in his tracks and looked down at him. He blinked. “What is _with_ you?” he asked. Then raising an eyebrow, “Did you grab the wrong “holy water”?”

 

Sam furrowed his brow. “What? No, Dean. I just don’t see why I can’t stay here with Bobby while you run to town.” Technically he shouldn’t have to ask for permission.

 

“Uh, because I said so,” his brother answered in a manner that screamed, _‘duh.’_ Huffing, Sam crossed his arms and tried his bitch-face. That just made Dean laugh.

 

Bastard.

 

“Sam, Bobby will be too busy. He won’t be able to keep a look out for you. Besides, we _both_ know what happened that last time he “watched you”,” he gave his brother a pointed look complete with air quotes.

 

Suddenly Sam felt even more nauseated, but dismissing the memory and vowing to find those pictures and destroy them, he bit back his usual _I’m not a kid_ retort. Though it hurt. He understood why Dean was being so protective. He knew why he wanted to keep him near. They hadn’t talked about what had happened in the living room, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been screaming in their heads since then. Sam was getting worse. But he wasn’t the only one running out of time.

 

“What’s the big deal, anyway?” Dean asked.

 

“Uh, I seem to recall nearly getting run over _twice_ ,” he brought up two fingers, including the guy on the sidewalk—though technically he _did_ get run over by him, “last time I was in town. I was _chased_ by Grabby Grandma, and every one of my cheeks were pinched within an inch of life.” He rubbed his rear and said thoughtfully, “I’m still not completely certain I escaped nerve damage.”

 

Sniggering, Dean finally found his keys and headed for the door. Sam sighed. “What if I prove to you that I can defend myself?” he asked as he followed his brother outside, his little feet working hard to keep up with the longer strides.

 

It was annoying as hell.

 

Dean looked amused at the thought, but, “No.”

 

“Scared?” The man trapped inside the child’s body challenged, crossing his arms and raising his chin defiantly.

 

Raising an appraising eyebrow, “Oh-ho-ho, bring it on, short stuff.” Before Dean could say another word, Sam ran up to him, kicked him in the knee and jumped onto his back when he bent over in surprise, grabbing the smarting limb. “Ow! Son of a _bitch_ , Sam! Will you knock that _off_!”

                                                                     

Arms around his neck, Sam lurched as hard as he could, trying to shove his brother off balance. No such luck, though. He was like a freakin’ rock. Looking around for inspiration, Sam covered his brother’s eyes with his hands and quickly kicked off the porch railing—sending Dean stumbling blindly forward with Sam hanging on for dear life.

 

Ignoring the mumbled curses, Sam then kicked them off Bobby’s car. Dean almost went down that time and was now pawing at him, trying to get him off. But legs wrapped tightly around his chest, and elbows locked, Sam was holding his own.

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

“You can’t stay small forever, Sam,” Dean warned, twisting and bending around, trying to shake his brother off. Sam found something else to kick off of and they went stumbling again—like a ping pong back and forth across Bobby’s yard.

 

“Those puppy-dog eyes won’t be able to protect you forever,” Dean grunted and twisted. “God, who’s feeding you _Wheaties_?” Grunt, twist. “Don’t think I won’t make you sleep…” Sam suddenly relaxed his gripped. “…out in the…” and Dean stilled as little fingers spread just enough for him to see. Straightening self-consciously, “Hey, Bobby,” Dean greeted awkwardly, breathing heavily.

 

“Uncle Bobby!” came an excited call from above him. Dean squared his shoulders and relaxed his grip even more. _Son of a_ ** _bitch_** _._

 

“Boys,” Bobby narrowed his eyes, studying them. “That big imp of a brother being nice to you, Sammy?” he asked the child, obviously hearing the threat.

 

Dean could practically see the dimples. “Yeah, he’s giving me a piggy-back ride!”

 

Nodding, Bobby turned back towards the shed, but not before giving Dean a warning look. “Good.”

 

As he walked away, feeling about ‘yeh big’, Dean fumbled with how to explain to his brother that he was just teasing, when the boy leaned down in his ear, “What was that you were saying about puppy-dog eyes?”

 

Before he could react to the deception, little hands covered his eyes…

  

~*~*~*~

 

Five minutes later, both panting heavily, Sam still clung to Dean’s neck and Dean still stood. “Give it up, Sam. You don’t have your faithful Frisbee,” the older boy mocked, even as he bent over and rested his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

 

Exhausted just from holding on, Sam glared at the back of his head. “What did you say?”

 

“I _said,_ ” Dean rose to the bait, “can you throw in a little battle cry next time? It’s just not the same without it.”

 

Sam’s face hardened. That’s it. It was time to get dirty. “You did this to yourself, Dean,” he warned before launching his next wave of attack.

 

Spider fingers that surprisingly hadn’t forgotten their way, a cry of surprise and a _very_ conveniently placed rock later, and Sam had Dean on the ground. Just. Like. That.

“AlrightAlrightAlright! Mercy! Uncle! Whatever!” Dean cried between barks of laughter Sam couldn’t remember hearing since the last time he tickled him—when they were _both_ kids. So he continued.

 

Greed. That was his first mistake, because now he _was_ vulnerable. Sitting on Dean’s stomach—though not very effectively pinning him—he was easily attacked in the same manner. Squealing, _damnit_ ** _squealing_** , Sam’s whole body lurched backwards trying to escape. Then the next thing he knew, one squeak later and he was dangling in the air…perched on the bottom of Dean’s shoes.

 

“Don’t you,” Sam panted, trying to catch his breath, “think I’m too _old_ for _airplane?_ ”

 

“Don’t you think I’m too _old_ to be tickled just short of _pissing_ myself?” Dean retorted, also trying to catch his breath.

 

“It worked,” Sam smiled smugly, even as he continued to dangle.

 

“Okay, Sam. I admit it,” Dean conceded, “You can defend yourself.”

 

Tiny fingers clutching his boots, little eyebrows rose in surprise, and with a squeak, “Really?”

 

“Yes. In fact, next time we hunt a wendigo, I’ll wait in the car while you tickle it to death.”

 

All Sam could do was glare… and dangle. “Well it worked for _you,_ anyway, and you have an unfair advantage, _Sasquatch._ ”

 

“You remember that when you get your freakishly long-ass legs back.” Dean pointed up at his hovering brother.

 

“Truths?” Sam breathed, “Your boots are digging into my spleen.”

 

Dean nodded, “Truths” and slowly lowered his legs to the side so Sam could roll off.

 

They both lay panting on the ground then. “Built for speed, huh?” Dean asked after a moment—remembering how Sam had made it onto his back before he even knew what had hit him.

 

Sam flashed his dimples. “Yup.”

 

“Guess it’s a good thing no sharp objects were laying around.”

“Damn straight.”

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

Fifteen minutes later, staring off into thought, something was nagging at Dean.

 

“That boy actin’ funny to you?” Bobby asked, snapping him out of his reverie. They were outside grabbing more candles from the shed before Dean ran into town _alone_ to get the sage Bobby _swore_ he already had. It seemed like it was taking forever just to get the first spell put together.

 

Dean raised an eyebrow.

 

“I mean…other than,” the older man flounder. “Shut up.”

 

Dean’s grin didn’t last long, though. “Yeah, actually,” he rolled his eyes, “if that makes any sense.”

 

“You think he’s up to somethin’?”

 

Dean’s face hardened as he thought back. As he continued to try and place what it was that was bothering him. When he had told Sam they’d fix this, he felt his body stiffen. At the time, he just figured it was in determination towards finding the spell they needed to change him back. But that wouldn’t explain why Sam had wanted to stay home so badly. That wouldn’t explain the feeling Dean had in the pit of his stomach right now.

 

Without a word, he took off running for the house.

 

“Sam!” he called before he even got inside, heart suddenly pounding— _knowing_ what his mind still hoped against; that his brother was in trouble. “Sammy?” Not seeing him, he ran straight for the bedroom they shared. “Sam!” He wasn’t there either.

 

And just like that, Dean went from worried to full-blown-frantic-big-brother mode. He could feel something was wrong. He could _feel_ it. He needed to find his brother, and he needed to find him _now_. “Saaaaaam!” he called at the top of his lungs, racing throughout the house.

 

He was heading upstairs when he saw a light flickering through the bottom of the bathroom door. “Sam,” he breathed, quickly rushing up to it and pounding. “Sammy!? SAM!”

 

But there was still no answer.

 

So stepping back, Dean kicked the door in.

 

His legs nearly failed him at the sight and he had to grip the doorframe to keep upright. Red. All there was was red…and his baby brother was sitting in the middle of it.

 

_Oh God…_

“Bobby!” he hollered, sweeping a bleeding, weakly protesting Sam up in his arms and running. “ **Bobby**!” he cried.

 

_Oh, God, oh God, oh, God…nonononono_

 

“What happened?” Bobby was already there. “What’d he do?”

 

Dean’s legs folded in the middle of the living room. “Sam?! _Sammy_!” he shook the pale boy in his arms. “Look at me, damnit,” he growled anxiously, gripping his face. “What’d you do?” his voice broke, but Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes.

 

Grabbing the tiny, limp arm in his hand, Dean’s heart skipped a beat and for another moment he forgot how to breathe. Black symbols covered Sam’s flesh, and a gut churning cut ran straight from his inner elbow all the way down to his wrist between two solid black lines—as if a runway for the damn knife. Shock blurred his vision as Bobby applied pressure with a towel.

 

“It doesn’t look that bad, son,” the older man tried to reassure. “Don’t even look like he hit a vein.”

 

Green eyes swimming with fear, with confusion, with betrayal; as if the blade had slit his own wrist, Dean looked back up at the trembling boy in his lap.

 

“I had to,” Sam whispered brokenly, tears slipping from his eyes as he met his brother’s for the first time.

 

“Had to _what_ , Sam?” the older boy tightened his grip on the small shoulder. “What did you do?”

 

When his brother looked away, Dean shook him. “Sam! You had to, _what_?” he demanded more forcefully as a new wave of fear surged through him.

 

“Dean,” Bobby interjected.

 

Another tear broke free, slowly sliding down Sam’s pale cheek, across his jaw and onto Dean’s thumb, but he wouldn’t meet his brother’s eyes again.

 

Shakily, numbly tearing his gaze from the warm liquid running down his hand, Dean looked back down at the arm Bobby held between two palms. Tremors shooting through his own body, he gripped the small frame harder. God, he had almost lost him again. He had almost lost him again…and this time, by Sam’s own hand.

 

“Dean?”

 

“Jeezus,” Closing his eyes, Dean turned away. That was _Sammy’s_ voice. His scared voice. And suddenly Dean’s mind was flooded with twenty-four years of that tone. Of every time Sam had turned to him for comfort. Of every time he had expected Dean to make it better. Of every time he had trusted Dean, put himself in his hands.

 

Now Sam was taking matters into his own hands.

 

And Dean hadn’t been able to protect him from himself.

 

_God, what had he done?_

_What had he **done**?_

 

Swallowing, Dean shakily looked up, searching Bobby’s own tear-filled eyes first, but the older man just shook his head. He didn’t know what to do either.

 

_God…_

 

Forcing down the bile, Dean turned to the little boy in his arms, the little boy he had always had an answer for. Until now. “Yeah,” he rasped, fake smile already faltering, “you’re gonna be okay, Sammy, alright?” he said thickly. He didn’t know how to promise otherwise. “We’ll fix you up.” His chin trembled, though, as he brushed aside wayward sweaty bangs—overwhelmed with the memory of the last time he had held his bleeding brother in his arms. Overwhelmed with the memory of the last time he had made such a promise.

 

~*~

 

Pushing his own fear to the side, Sammy studied him closely. He didn’t understand the pain he saw in Dean’s eyes, but knowing what had caused _himself_ to cry last time, “Did you die again?” he asked in a hushed, worried whisper.

 

~*~

 

With his own heart pounding so loudly, Bobby almost hadn’t heard it when Dean pulled his brother in roughly against his chest—the choked and ragged, “Almost.”

-

 

-

 

-

 

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

The wind was picking up. A loose shutter beat against the house a lonely tune. And inside, Dean sat…and stared. His mind in turmoil, his heart…in pieces, he stared.

 

“Dean?” Bobby called hesitantly from the doorway.

 

His eyes never strayed from the small body. “What was it?” he rasped. They had moved Sammy to his bed after he fell asleep in Dean’s arms. It had taken twenty stitches to put his brother back together again, but Dean still felt broken.

 

Bobby came up quietly behind him, not wanting to disturb the sleeping boy. “Looks like some sort of spell. _What for_ , I don’t know,” he added regretfully. “He burned the incantation. Unless we can figure out that nonsense on his arm, the only way we’re gonna find out what that brother of yours did…is if he tells us.”

 

“Bobby, what…” voice breaking, it took Dean a moment to speak past his snowballing despair. “What could have _possibly_ been so important that he’d have to…” leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he covered his mouth with a trembling hand. He couldn’t even manage the words.

 

At a loss, Bobby just shook his head. He could only think of one thing that would make Sam do whatever it was he did. Dean. Of course. But he wouldn’t voice it. The kid, most likely, had already figured it out and was suffering bad enough for it. Because it was that unbearable feeling in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t ignore. That told him, that reminded him with sickening revelation that Sam would never go through all this trouble—all this pain, just to save…himself.

 

Bobby swallowed hard, preparing himself to give even more bad news. “Whatever your brother _did_ do, was like sending off a beacon, though.” He watched the hanging shoulders tense and cursed himself as he placed even more weight on them. “If somethin’ is out there lookin’ for him and was paying attention…” _If Lilith…_

 

Dean didn’t say anything, and Bobby figured it was because he just couldn’t. “I’ll be in the shed,” he finished wearily.

 

~*~

 

Listening as Bobby walked away, Dean washed an unsteady hand down his face.

 

What had he taught his brother?

  

~*~*~*~

A cold front was moving in and so were the clouds. Out back in the shed, seeking solitude for his fear, his grief, Bobby stood rigid, hands gripping the workbench. No wonder John had chosen a ticket to hell. It was worlds easier then watching those boys hurt.

 

The hunter dug his fingers into the wood, angry at the world, angry at the boys. Angry at himself.

 

What was it with the Winchesters?

 

Why could they only exist together…or not at all?

 

He should have seen this coming, he realized, shaking his head. If Sam had found something in all those books…

 

Bobby closed his eyes. He probably didn’t even fully research it.

 

“Damnit!” he cursed, shoving off the workbench.

 

He’s always tried to act indifferent, stay detached. But _especially_ since Cold Oak…Bobby learned that it would be impossible to do…the further they wiggled their skinny orphaned asses into his rusty old heart.

 

And soon he was going to lose them both. Because even if one was left standing in the next couple of months, it was only a matter of time before the other followed. Their hearts just didn’t know how to beat on their own.

 

That was something else Bobby had learned at Cold Oak.

 

 ~*~*~*~

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, son?” he asked, watching Dean pace, concerned that if something _did_ happen from the first spell, Sam’s body would be too weak to withstand it. It had been six hours since he pulled his little stunt and the boy remained unconscious.

 

Dean was, needless to say, eager to go forward with the first spell. If something was coming for his brother, it would help to have an extra set of hands. Also, if Sam were big again, Dean could kick his ass for the shit he pulled.

 

Dean stopped in his tracks and looked at him like he had two heads “What the hell are you talking about, Bobby?” he held frustrated arms out to the side. “We, we, we don’t know what the hell he _did_! We don’t know who might be _coming_!” he counted off.

 

“Listen, I’m just saying—” the older man tried to placate.

 

“ _No_ ,” Dean shook his head, already dismissing whatever he was going to say, and going back to his pacing, “our _plan_ from the beginning has been to do this _friggin’_ _pointless_ _spell_ ,” he yelled, enunciating each word with a slice of his hand, “and that’s what we’re gonna do.”

 

Bobby could do nothing to hide the worry from his eyes. He hadn’t seen him look this bad, this desperate since Sam had died in his arms. “Dean…”

 

“What?!” he snapped, turning on him. The raging helplessness was quick to melt into weariness and fear, however. “Jeezus, Bobby,” desperate green sought out his, “we have no idea what he did. We don’t know how it might….” his voice broke, “how it might of hurt him. We don’t know…” Shaking his head, tears in his eyes, he turned away, placing his hands dejectedly on his hips.

 

Eyes brimming with his own heartache, Bobby watched the younger man hang his head on squared shoulders—balancing the weight of the world as he always did…with his brother sitting on top and with his own head barely above water.

 

With determination in his posture, but weariness still in his eyes, Dean turned back to him. “If we can do something, _anything_ ,” It almost sounded like a plea—so breathless, so full of need to make things better even if it was the last thing he did—and it just might be, “thenwe’re _doing_ it.”

 

Bobby wasn’t surprised when his own voice came out but a whisper. “Alright.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

Dean was seeing red again. Although this time it was anger that blurred his vision.

 

“What? That’s **it**?!” They had just completed the first spell, _finally,_ and all they got for their efforts was a cold draft and blown out candles. “No memos? No clues? Nothing written in candle wax?”

 

Bobby couldn’t hide his disappointment either, “We knew it was a long shot, son.”

 

In utter frustration and despair, Dean kicked the table—sending it and the ritual sliding across the kitchen floor, “Son of a _bitch_!” he hollered before stalking off.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Bobby found him sitting on the front porch steps. He sighed at the rigid shoulders—how they trembled, but would never collapse under the weight. Pushing open the screen door, he sat down beside the younger man.

 

“Storms comin’,” he noted absently as the wind picked up.

 

Dean didn’t even note his presence. And he didn’t expect him to.

 

He really didn’t know what else to say, though. He had no words to reassure him—none that Bobby believed himself anyway. And since he respected the boy too much to lie…

 

He didn’t say anything at all.

 

But after a long moment, Dean sure did. “He’ll need…” voice strained, chin trembling, he stared off into the night. “He needs someone that’ll love him, Bobby,” he finished raggedly.

 

Tears filling his eyes, Bobby immediately nodded. He didn’t even have to think. “You know I will, son,” he replied huskily, heart breaking at the thought of them not having each other. At the thought of something whole…not.

 

It was a conversation he prayed never to continue, but realized that though Dean would fight to turn Sam back until the hell hounds came to drag him away… that day wasn’t far to come.

 

Throat working, still looking off into the night, Dean merely nodded back.

 

Words were beyond him now.

 

…beyond both of them.

 

So in the dark they wordlessly sat as Dean struggled with the cost of his mortality, and Bobby struggled with how he would hold the pieces that were left behind together.

 

Though neither could help but wonder now…whose pieces, exactly, those would be.

 

The wind picked up again, weaving its chill between their bodies, but neither noticed this time.

 

“We _will_ find a way to turn him back,” _and save him from whatever nonsense he’s gotten himself into._ Bobby decided he’d believe it if Dean would. And the boy didn’t disappoint.

 

Surreptitiously wiping a hand down his face, he finally turned to him. His eyes battle-weary, but not completely without hope. “I know we will,” he replied roughly.

 

Nodding again, reclaiming their resolve, Bobby tried to swallow down the painful lump in his throat that lately seemed to be a permanent fixture. Nobody could break his heart like these two could. Nobody else could leave him feeling so damn helpless either. Not since his wife, had he felt so inadequate. Not since his wife had he ever wanted to fix something so badly. Not since his wife, had he ached so deeply at someone else’s pain.

 

…especially when Sammy started screaming. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Dean was in the house before Bobby even made it to his feet. He had Sammy in his arms before he even made it into the bedroom. And he had his brother falling back to sleep before Bobby could even figure out what the hell had happened.

 

“Nightmare,” Dean answered his silent question.

And Bobby watched as, eyes closed, head on Dean’s shoulder, Sammy’s shallow breathing quickly evened out—his confused and terrified cries already a distant memory as he lightly fingered Dean’s amulet back into slumber.

 

He had just needed his brother.

 

Watching as Dean held him, rocking, murmuring words only Sammy could hear, Bobby was reminded again that that was all either had ever needed…yet for some reason, was always too much to ask.

 

“He has a fever again,” Dean stated unhappily, cupping the back of his brother’s head and looking up at Bobby worriedly.

  

~*~*~*~

Hours later, Dean sat in the living room stroking Sammy’s sweat soaked hair. His brother didn’t take up nearly as much room on his lap anymore, he realized absently…not like he did when they were _both_ kids anyway.

 

A lump suddenly formed in his throat. “What did you do, Sam?” he wondered aloud, not for the first time that night.

 

Looking up as Bobby walked in, Dean schooled the anguish from his features. “I think my sweat is sweating,” he commented languidly.

 

Grinning crookedly, Bobby handed him a cold beer, which Dean immediately placed against his own brow. A fevered, clingy Sammy was wrapped up in a blanket sleeping against his chest and Dean felt like he was baking from the outside-in.

 

“It break yet?” Bobby asked with genuine concern.

 

Without taking a sip, Dean sat his beer down. He scrubbed at his face. “No, but at least it hasn’t gotten any higher.” He yawned and looked down at his watch—though he didn’t need to. He could hear the birds starting to chirp outside. “Do you think…?” he then asked worriedly as Bobby went to lower himself down onto the couch. “You think it’s just a cold, right? Nothin’…supernatural?”

 

The older man straightened and studied them both for a long moment. “Nah, I’m sure it’s just a cold,” he finally said, but didn’t sound as convinced as he tried to come off.

 

Sitting on the couch then, he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and sat his own beer down on the floor. Though Dean had stayed up with the fevered snuggle-bug, Bobby hadn’t been to sleep either. “Protective charms are placed all around the perimeter.” He already had some up, of course, but decided to do a little reinforcing.

 

But Dean’s mind was far away…where his heart hurt a lot less, “You know,” he started softly, “when he was little…the _first_ time,” he added ironically. “The first clue we’d get that he was gettin’ sick, was when he’d take off with _my_ pillow and disappear on us. We’d…” Dean grinned and continued fondly, scratching behind his ear, “we’d find him in the weirdest places—curled up behind the couch, under the bed, in the closet. One time I even found him in the cupboard with the cooking pans.” He shook his head. “I don’t think even he knew he was getting sick—”

 

“He’d just take somethin’ of comfort with him and hole up somewhere,” Bobby finished for him, earning an embarrassed glance. “I seem to recall him curling up under the table with one of your dolls when he was about two.”

 

Dean’s face fell. “I owned no such thing.”

 

“Yeah, remember it was that alien thing,” Bobby gestured loosely with his hand.

 

“It was _E.T._ ,” Dean grated, “and he was a **plush.** **_action_.** **figure**.”

 

The older man just grinned knowingly, “Mmhmm,” Then got serious, “Has he been Sammy all night?”

 

He got his answer in the troubled way Dean looked down at his brother. 

 

“You think…you think he’ll come back?” the younger man asked a few moments later, almost hesitantly—as if afraid of knowing the answer. They hadn’t heard from Sam since he told Dean he “had to.” And although he held him in his arms…Dean missed his brother.

 

Bobby wanted to tell him yes. That Sam was still in there somewhere… “I don’t know,” he ended up admitting reluctantly, taking off his cap and turning his eyes to the boy currently pressed against Dean’s chest—his mouth hanging slightly open as he breathed through the congestion. “I don’t know.”

 

The room filled then with an impossibly heavy silence that left both men aching. Because even as they openingly embraced the child…both men missed the _man_ they knew as Sam Winchester.

 

After a long, weighted moment Bobby awkwardly scratched his beard—pushing himself to talk about what they had been avoiding all night. “Those markings on Sam’s arm…” he started. Dean’s tired eyes turned to him. “I’ve been trying to figure out where they come from, what they mean…”

 

“And?”

 

“I haven’t had much luck of it yet,” he admitted.

 

Dean turned back to his brother.

 

“But I was thinkin’, Dean… I didn’t feel any changes in the ozone—nothing to indicate a monster of a spell being performed—which is what Sam would of needed to bust you outta your deal…”

 

That got Dean’s attention again. “What are you saying, Bobby?” he eyed him closely.

 

The older man shrugged. “Maybe it didn’t work. Or, _maybe_ we stopped him before he could finish it,” he ventured, not surprised when Dean closed his eyes, shoulders slightly relaxing.

 

But Bobby found himself frowning. Only these two would fight over who got to go to hell first.

 

Break his heart indeed.

 

A noise from outside had both men immediately on their feet. Gently, but quickly placing his lax brother into Bobby’s capable arms, Dean grabbed his 9mil from the coffee table. “Take him to the bedroom and stay with him.”

 

“Dean…”

 

“Go!” he ordered low, weapon pointed to the floor but ready as he cautiously approached the front door. Lazarus started barking and Dean pulled the blind slightly down to look out the living room window. It was just after dawn and everything was covered in dew, but he couldn’t see anything suspicious—like an army of demons come to claim his baby brother.

 

Glancing back to make sure Bobby had done what he had asked, Dean crept up to the front door. Slowly, he reached out a hand to grab the doorknob and squaring his jaw, whipped it open, gun immediately leveled on…

 

“Missouri?”

 

Numbly, Dean lowered his gun. He had been prepared for just about anything…

 

“Boy, you just gonna stand there…”

 

Except this.

 

“Missouri?” he asked again, face scrunching up in uncontained confusion and surprise as he relaxed his stance.

 

Her tone and eyes soften, “Yeah, baby, it’s me.”

 

Bobby appeared at Dean’s side then with a groggy handful who had his arms extended. Exchanging the gun for his brother, Dean took the still too warm body into his arms, trying not to show his disappointment that it wasn’t Sam. “Hey there, squeaks. How you feelin’?”

 

As an answer, the four-year-old laid his cheek against his shoulder and tentatively tucked his injured arm between them. Then sticking the tip of his thumb in his mouth, regarded Missouri warily as Bobby let her in. “Been awhile,” the older man greeted gruffly.

 

“Not long enough,” the woman smirked, but not unkindly.

 

Then shaking her head as she placed her hands on her hips, tears filled her eyes as she got a good look at the brothers. “Oh, boys, what have you gotten yourself into?”

  

~*~*~*~

 

Bobby still made her drink the holy water, although she already had to pass a few tests just to get to the porch. And knowing why, knowing it was to protect the boys, Missouri did so without complaint.

 

“Now that that’s out of the way…” she said, setting her purse on the righted kitchen table and turning back to the reason she was there.

 

“Are you here to save my brother?” came a congested murmur out of nowhere.

 

Surprised, Dean looked down at the limp noodle in his arms—who still had his head tucked under his chin.

 

“One boy at a time, sweetie,” Missouri said, smoothing aside his damp bangs. “One boy at a time.”

 

She turned to Dean then, eyes sharp. “Young man, if you don’t calm down in there, you’re not gonna give me a chance to answer all those questions.”

 

Dean didn’t have the energy to look anything other than the way he felt; tired and desperate. He hadn’t seen this woman since Kansas, but he knew—he _had_ to believe she was here because she could help. “Missouri,” he breathed brokenly, pleadingly.

 

“I know,” she soothed, cupping his jaw and rubbing her thumb across it. “I know.”

-

-

-

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

Dean blinked, his brain trying to comprehend all that he had just been told.

 

“Lemme get this straight,” he said, finally finding his voice. “Not only did Sam contact you with. his. _mind_ ,” he drawled sarcastically. “But you think his…his _abilities,_ ” the word tasted bitter on Dean’s tongue, “are what saved him from completely turning into a child straight off? Are what stopped that thing from feedin’ off him right away?”

 

Missouri nodded and replied simply, “I do.”

 

“I thought they were gone since…” Bobby chimed in.

 

“Yeah, you and me both,” Dean echoed agitated. Worried.

 

“Well, it’s a good thing they’re not,” Missouri pointed out.

 

Dean just gave her a look. He wanted to pace…badly, but was pinned on the sofa by his fevered three and a half foot sibling…again. He was going to have a Sammy imprint.

 

“When he… _contacted_ you, what did he say?” Bobby pressed.

 

She shook her head, deep in thought. “He didn’t so much say anything as he did leave me with the impression that I had to hurry.”

 

“Why?” Bobby asked tersely from his cross-armed position against the wall.

 

She shook her head again. “All I know is that I had to hurry before he became too weak. You see, the hobyah’s spell is still doing a number on him and that cold is weakening his defenses.”

 

“You mean his _psychic_ defenses,” Dean spat out. He still couldn’t believe his ears.

 

Missouri gave _him_ a look this time.

 

“That’s why he’s been Sammy more.” It dawned on Bobby.

 

“Yes,” she nodded emphatically.

 

“Missouri…” Dean started throatily, Sammy held close in his arms as he studied her hard and got to the point, “do you know how to help my brother?”

 

Eyes soft, “No,” she replied, watching his own fall away with despair. “But _he_ does.” She nodded at the little boy snoring lightly against his chest, tucked under a beloved leather jacket.

  

~*~*~*~

 

“Sam.”

 

He jerked in the darkness.

 

“Sam, wake up.” It was an order, despite the underlining prayer Sam could pick up in it. He tried to do as the faint voice asked, but his body was making a slow go of it. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know what had happened. His mind felt sluggish, muddled with elusive memories, and his body…

 

He was lying on something soft and warm, he realized as his other senses started to return to him.

 

“Sam.”

 

He smelled gun oil, M&Ms…and leather. Something within him relaxed having confirmed what he really already knew. _Dean._

 

“Are you sure this is gonna work? Me just callin’ to him?”

 

“It already has.”

 

This time he was carefully lifted away from the warmth, supportive hand cradling his head as something fell from his shoulders.

 

“Sam, open your eyes.” The hand slid down and squeezed the side of his neck encouragingly. But he didn’t want to. Everything hurt. Especially, _God,_ especially his head. He tried to curl back into the warmth, but persistent hands wouldn’t let him.

 

“No you don’t, big guy. I taught you better than to invite guests over and sleep through their visit.”

 

_Guests?_

“Just give him a moment, Dean,” he heard a woman say softly. “The boy’s confused and he’s hurtin’ somethin’ bad. All he knows is that he’s safe and that’s good enough for the moment.”

  
 

~*~*~*~

 

This time Dean let Sam burrow back into him, a protective arm instinctively curling around the little body. “What do you mean, he’s _hurting_?”

 

Missouri frowned, “Fighting off the effects of the spell is getting harder and harder and it’s taking a toll on your brother’s body.”

 

“So you’ve said,” Dean replied impatiently. “Why the hurting?”

 

“There are two consciousnesses in that little body,” she said, standing to get her bag. “Both of them are your brother’s, of course, but as his body gets weaker, the spell tries harder to push his younger mind to the front. For Sam to be present, he has to push back…and it’s not easy.”

 

Looking down at the flushed cheeks buried in his side, Dean suddenly realized just how quickly Sam had slipped so much further from his grasp. Wasn’t it just yesterday that Sam had been leaping onto his back? Wasn’t it just yesterday that the kid had him laughing harder than he had in years?

 

“Here,” Missouri returned, handing him a marker, “redraw the symbol that was on his chest before.”

 

Alarmed, Dean looked up.

 

“Damn, we didn’t even think…” Bobby cursed.

 

Missouri’s gaze stayed fixed on Dean’s. “You remember what I was telling you about open wounds in your old house? Well, now your brother is one…an open wound, that is,” she clarified. “The incomplete spell is leaving him more vulnerable than ever.”

 

Dean numbly took the marker…one much like the one Sam had used on his arm, and lifted his brother’s shirt. Still out of it, Sam made a strangled noise and squirmed at the cold air hitting his flesh, trying to hide against the warmth.

 

“Easy, kiddo, just hold still a minute for me.” Dean eased him back slightly.

 

This time he drew it right over Sam’s sternum. He tried to ignore the way his brother laid so lax, laid so completely helpless in his lap with his head turned into him—seeking what little comfort he could. He tried to ignore the way his tiny chest rose sporadically under the black tip. He tried to ignore how fragile he suddenly seemed right now—more so than he had since this whole thing had begun.

 

But he couldn’t.

 

He swallowed thickly.

 

“Good,” Missouri said, taking the cup of warm water she had asked for from Bobby and adding some herbs, “now have him drink some of this.”

 

Pulling the shirt down and readjusting his rag-doll-brother in his arms, Dean tucked him back in with his jacket and took the mug. “What is it?”

 

“It’ll help clear his mind a bit and ease some of the aches.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

It was a half a cup later that a previously completely out-of-it Sam, looked up at his brother through bleary eyes.

 

“Sam?” Dean called, hopeful.

 

“Dean?” Coughing, he tried to sit up, but alarmingly weak, immediately fell back into ready arms. His breathing quickened as he looked up.

 

“It’s okay,” Dean reassured, voice thick with relief at getting to talk to _Sam_ again. The small body automatically relaxed back into him. “You just gotta learn how to control that wild princess inside you,” he added with a smirked.

 

Instantly the worn eyes narrowed. “Says the one that cried _mercy_.”

 

“Hey,” Dean brought up a stern finger, gladly rising to the bait, “Tickling is _cheating_.”

 

The corner of Sam’s mouth turned up tiredly, but amused as he remained lying in his brother’s arms. “No.”

 

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “No?” He leaned back a bit.

 

Eyes sparkling, with the faintest of dimples showing, “It’s _resourceful,_ **jerk**.”

 

Throat suddenly tight, Dean was inches from pulling his baby brother up and squeezing the stuffing out of him right there in front of everyone. God, how he had missed him…though he’d been practically attached to his hip. Instead of embarrassing himself, he patted the tiny chest and replied gruffly, “Whatever you say, princess.”

 

“As much as I hate to break up this little reunion,” Bobby stepped up closer, his own eyes suspiciously moist. “How you feelin’, kid?” he asked sincerely.

 

Sam’s eyes turned to him, lids already starting to droop. “Like Lazarus _did_ mistake me for the new squeaky toy,” he murmured.

 

“Sam?” Dean hated the desperation in his voice as he lifted his brother’s down-sized body up against him. “Open your eyes.”

 

Blinking, Sam struggled to stay focused. “So cuddly,” he grouched good-naturedly.

 

Dean rolled his eyes. If ever the kettle…

 

“What’s…” he then breathed, “what’s wrong with me, Dean?”

 

And it was then that Dean realized just how badly Sam felt.

 

He was still in his lap. He wasn’t demanding to be put down.

 

“I told you—”

 

“I’m not Sammy,” stern puppy-dog eyes interrupted.

 

Grinning despite himself, “I know,” Dean conceded. “But honestly, Sam…your body is just tired, okay? It’s been through a lot, don’t you think?” While his brother thought on this, Dean scratched his temple, “Speaking of which…” he added uncomfortably, “tell me about the arm.” He gestured to where it lay tucked under the makeshift blanket, his body growing tense just thinking about it.

 

But Sam’s brow furrowed under brown locks.

 

Clenching his jaw and closing his eyes—remembering the blood, remembering the fear, “Don’t you lie to me, Sam,” he breathed, begged, low and harsh. “That was _you_ , **not** Sammy.” He opened his eyes, though, when his brother’s breathing started to increase. “Sam?” He gripped the small shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Dean,” Wide awake now and panicked, struggling to sit up, Sam tried to push the leather jacket aside to see, “what the hell are you talking about?”

 

Dean’s eyes cut to Missouri’s confused ones. “He doesn’t know,” she said softly.

 

“Know _what_?” Sam demanded, then did a double take and squeaked, “Missouri?”

 

“Sam,” Bobby asked, eyes sharp as he edged closer, “you don’t remember doing some sort of spell in the bathroom?”

 

“Spell? No. W-what for?” he asked anxiously. “Did we find a way to turn me back?” he looked earnestly between the old family friend and his brother, then down to the wrapped arm he freed from under Dean’s jacket. “What…?” he finally managed to sit up this time with Dean’s help, but ended up doubling over, violently coughing. The only thing keeping him from falling to the floor was the strong arm around his middle.

“Calm down, Sam,” Dean ordered sternly, worriedly, rubbing a hand up and down the small, trembling back without even realizing what he was doing. “This, this…hobyah spell is just wearing you out s’all, okay?”

 

Finally done coughing, but completely spent, Sam collapsed forward. “Easy, I got ya,” Dean gently tucked him back in under his arm, against his chest. “I’ve got ya,” he repeated.

 

Little lungs still heaving slightly, wide eyes turned to him—and as full of pain and fear as they were…they were also full of trust. Dean nearly looked away. He didn’t deserve that trust…at least not this week. Swallowing, “Sam, listen to me.” It was so hard not to call him Sammy now. “Why did you contact Missouri?” He needed to know...just in case.

 

Slowly, hesitantly, Sam turned his head towards her and away from Dean. It was a long moment he studied the psychic…

 

“Sam…?” Dean asked, before his brother squeezed his eyes shut…and screamed.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Dean was pacing. Missouri was trembling. And Bobby was holding an unconscious Sam in his protective…yet undoubtedly shaking arms.

 

“What the hell just happened, Missouri?” Dean demanded, not for the first time. He had been curled over his brother for the past five minutes, stroking his hair and fervently trying to calm him as he writhed and screamed…completely oblivious to Dean’s desperate attempts—completely oblivious to the blood spilling from his ears and nose…even as he choked on it.

 

Nowthat he had finally, mercifully passed out, Dean was pacing as Bobby took over cuddle/cleaning duty.

 

Unsteadily, the psychic made her way to the living room window. Dean watched her back nervously, fingers digging into his hips as he tried to control the nausea that’d been rising since Sam had started screaming, since he had started bleeding. “ ** _What_** _? What is it?”_

 

Looking out the window across the yard, the woman shook her head. She couldn’t believe what she saw. She couldn’t believe what she was about to say.

 

“If I don’t start gettin’ some **freakin’** _answers_ …!”

 

“It was _Sammy_ ,” she finally managed shakily, window blinds casting shadows across her troubled features. The room grew unbearably silent.

 

“Now that just doesn’t make a lick of sense.” Bobby was the first to speak past the shock, past the confusion.  


Looking down, Missouri took a breath, seeking strength. “He’s protecting—”

 

“Protecting?!” Dean stammered in disbelief, finally finding his voice. “Missouri, I _know_ you heard him screaming at the top of his lungs like his head was being torn open. I _know_ you saw the **_blood_** _!_ ” he gestured back to his brother.

 

“Easy, boy,” Bobby coaxed.

 

Taking a breath and working his jaw—still feeling sick and at a loss for what had just happened, “Tell me…” Dean demanded gruffly, “how the hell’s **that** ,” he pointed again at his unconscious brother, “ _protecting_?”

 

Shaking her head, Missouri closed her eyes. “He’s _protecting_ ,” she practically whispered, looking back up through the blinds, “… ** _you_**.”

 

-

 

-

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

_“There is no distance on this earth as far away as yesterday.” ~robert nathan_

 

Tucking the blanket around his brother, Dean lowered himself next to him on the bed. He was asleep again, thankfully—having woken up violently coughing and only marginally lucid right after Missouri told them that Sammy was actually protecting _Sam_ as well—which was why he couldn’t remembering doing the spell.

 

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Dean watched him sleep for a long moment, struggling with every emotion imaginable before reaching over and lightly smoothing aside the ever wayward bangs. Then taking the warm washcloth again, he gently dabbed away the drying blood on Sam’s face. Leftovers from Sammy’s “protecting.” He was so tired of seeing his blood…especially when his brother was the one doing the spilling—which was happening way too often lately.

 

Their lives…so freakin’ messed up.

 

“What’re you up to, Sammy?” he asked softly, more to himself than to his sleeping brother.

 

“He okay?” Bobby stepped up to the doorway.

Clearing his throat, “Yeah,” Dean leaned back a bit and threw the washcloth onto the nightstand, “He’s asleep.”

 

The older man nodded. “Missouri’s ready.” 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Walking into the kitchen, “Why is my brother hurting himself?” Dean demanded gruffly.

 

Already sitting at the table, the woman nodded, “Okay, _first_ you should know the spell _you_ two did, _worked._ ”

 

Two pair of surprised eyebrows rose simultaneously.

 

“Did he have a nightmare after you completed it?” she asked.

 

“Yeah,” Dean glanced uneasily at Bobby as he leaned on a chair, “Sammy did.” He turned back to Missouri. “Why?”

 

“It was the spirits showing him what he needed to know.” She shook her head, brow creased. “But he couldn’t understand it. It only frightened him.”

 

“But _Sam_ knew,” Bobby realized out loud.

 

“Yes. What little part of him was aware at the time.”

 

“And not knowing if he’d be able to tell us…” Dean paused, tightening his jaw, “if he’d be in _control_ again, he reached out to the only person he didn’t actually have to _tell_ ,” he surmised.

 

Missouri’s eyes met Dean’s in confirmation.

 

“What did you see,” Bobby regarded her closely, “before Sammy stopped it? What’s he protecting them from?”

 

When she hesitated, tears filling her dark brown eyes, a lump formed in Dean’s throat. Tensing, he straightened.

 

“What?” Bobby prompted again, glancing worriedly at Dean. “What did you see?”

 

The single word was soft, even gentle when spoken with as much sympathy as it was, but it instantly drained the color from both seasoned hunters’ faces.

 

“Tuesday.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Staring off into thought, Dean sat at the kitchen table alone.

 

Six months.

 

_That son of a bitch trickster._

 

Sam had been alone for _over_ six months before his world was righted again. He knew what life was going to be like without him.

 

He knew.

 

Dean closed his eyes.

 

_Jeezus…_

 

He had gone straight back to Sam’s side after Missouri told them. He had wanted to wake him. He had wanted to demand to know why he hadn’t told him. But he ended up just standing there. Frozen. Watching his brother sleep and understanding a lot better the ache he’d been seeing in his eyes the last few weeks—as if Sam had already lost him.

 

Because he already had.

 

_/ “I had to.” /_

One elbow on the table, rubbing his brow absently, Dean stared off…the heartache, the desperation suddenly all too familiar.

 

_/ “I had to, Bobby. He’s my brother.”/_

 

“Damnit, Sam,” he breathed low, closing his eyes again and praying that Bobby was right—that the spell hadn’t had the chance to be completed, because now he was more certain than ever. In that bathroom, Sam had tried to do _whatever_ it took…to save him.

 

He cursed again. Who the hell was the big brother anyway? Sam was trying to protect him. Sammy was trying to protect him _and_ Sam. _He_ was the one that was supposed to be doing the protecting, damnit. It was _his_ job. _His_ birthright.

 

…which he was currently failing at miserably.

Washing a hand wearily down his face, a tug on his shirt had him lifting his head to find Sammy swaying before him, clutching his leather jacket in one hand. He looked impossibly little and innocent standing there all sleepy-faced with his hair askew. No one would have guessed he held such strength already at this young age, such determination, such an innate drive within him to protect his family…despite the pain it caused himself…despite the fact that it might cost him his life. Because that’s what it could come to, Dean feared, if they couldn’t figure out what was going on in that head of his.

 

A part of Dean wanted to be proud. Honored even. But the big brother part of him…the part of him that had raised and worried over him…wanted to smack him upside the head and curse at him until he was blue in the face.

 

He’d just end up scaring Sammy, though. And Sam…Sam would just call Dean a self-righteous bastard, go all bitch-face on him…and probably kick him in the shins before stomping off. Dean grinned crookedly…but it fell.

 

Another tug on his shirt refocused his attention and reaching over tiredly, “Sorry, Squeaks,” Dean picked Sammy up and placed him in his lap. Since Sammy didn’t have to fight to remain present, he was a lot stronger than Sam. Dean doubted Sam would even be able to stand at this point…especially after what Sammy had done trying to protect him, _them_. Sam from an unbearable memory and God knows what else. And Dean…from something he couldn’t change.

 

“What are you doing out of bed?”

 

But sticking the tip of his thumb in his mouth, Sammy merely melted into his chest.

 

Frowning, the older hunter wrapped his arms around him, melting back with a sigh, and for a moment…for a much needed moment, was nothing more than a big brother with a sick little brother. “You know how long it took me to break you of that habit the first time, kiddo?” he teased lightly, tucking the jacket around him. “Actually,” he thought aloud with the faintest of grins. “I think you still do it once in awhile.”

 

When Sammy started fingering Dean’s amulet, “You didn’t have another nightmare, did you?” Dean asked into his hair.

 

The head shook.

 

“Good.” Though, if Dean were being honest with himself, it’d be nice if the spirits or whatever would leave another bread crumb for them.

 

Apparently while Dean was…gone and Sam had searched for the trickster…he had also hunted. And something he had hunted, so said the spirits, had something they needed to turn Sam back. What? Missouri hadn’t been able to see. But she got a glimpse of the creature from Sam’s memory before Sammy blocked it and was pretty sure she could figure out what it was. Then they’d just have to find it.

 

Piece of friggin’ cake.

 

A car door outside announced the return of Missouri. The psychic had wanted to gather some herbs she couldn’t bring with her on the plane, and also insisted on them eating real food. What did she think _Fruity Pebbles_ and _Fruit Loops_ were?

 

Not to mention _Fruit Loops_ doubled as weaponry.

 

Dean’s eye still stung.

 

“Hey, baby, how you feelin’?” Missouri came in carrying a bag of groceries.

 

Dean opened his mouth.

 

“Not _you_.”

 

He feigned hurt.

 

“Boy, suck in that pout.” But she said it with a wink.

 

Sammy giggled and turned shyly to hide in Dean’s chest as he clutched at his necklace. “What’s so funny?” Dean asked, looking down at him.

 

Timid eyes peeked out towards Missouri from under shaggy bangs.

 

“Yeah,” Dean drawled sarcastically, “she’s a hoot, isn’t she?” he said dryly.

 

Missouri brought up a warning finger as Bobby came in with more bags and a book from the shed—which Dean was beginning to suspect was as much a place to regroup for him as it was for information.

 

“Hey, kiddo. Hope you’re hungry,” Bobby dropped the brown paper bags onto the kitchen table.

 

Dean’s eyebrows rose at the amount of food. He started peeking hopefully in the ones he could reach, only to be slapped away by Missouri. “Ow!,” he looked affronted.

 

“M&M’s are for _after_ lunch,” she warned with a knowing eye.

 

Grumbling, Dean looked down at his brother…and grinned. “Hey, Sammy…”

 

“Don’t even think about it, Winchester.”

 

Damn her psychic abilities.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“So, now that’s two possible creatures we’ve narrowed it down to based on what Missouri saw,” Bobby said, tossing a book onto the kitchen table.

 

“Great, so now we just have to narrow it down to _one, **the** _ one and scourer three thousand miles to find it,” Dean replied dryly. Yup. Piece of friggin cake.

 

Bobby shrugged. “I’ve already put some feelers out to some other hunters—see if they know where either of these creatures might be holdin’ up.”

 

They really didn’t know any other way to go about it, not without Sam’s help, not without risking Sammy trying to stop him again.

 

Dean nodded, trying to wipe his squirming brother’s mouth off. The kid did manage to eat some spaghetti before his appetite waned completely, but most of it ended up _on_ him…and therefore, Dean.

 

“The bath’s ready,” Missouri chimed, walking back into the kitchen. Both boys froze in their struggles.

 

“For _Sammy_ ,” she clarified. “Though it wouldn’t hurt if you grabbed one too when he’s done,” she eyed Dean up and down.

 

Tentatively sniffing an armpit, Dean canted his head to the side. He really couldn’t argue.

  

~*~*~*~

 

As baths went, this one went relatively easy. Sammy was too tired to put up a fuss and actually ended up bathing himself—claiming, to Dean’s amusement, that he was a ‘big boy’. After Dean adjusted the water temperature, helped him get his shirt off over his bandaged arm, and dodged yet another question about where their dad had gone, he was good to go.

 

Standing by the slightly ajar bathroom door, ready to assist if needed, Dean reminded him, “Don’t get your bandage wet.”

 

“I won’t,” came a weary reply. The kid was fading fast.

 

“Don’t scrub off my awesome artwork,” he added.

 

“I won’t,” came another slightly more exasperated reply. Dean grinned at how Sam-like he sounded when tired...or was it Sam just sounded more Sammy-like?

 

It wasn’t long before his little brother was waddling out, clean pants on and a towel hugged around him.

 

“All done, kiddo?” Dean asked, snapping the jeans—impressed that he even managed to get them on being mostly one-handed. “Squeaky clean?”

 

“Squeaky is clean,” he murmured sleepily into Dean’s neck as he was scooped into his arms.

 

Grinning, Dean nodded. “That’s my boy.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

Sitting him on his bed—Dean’s eyes, for a moment, were unable to look away from the unmarred skin. Aside from the wound he had inflicted on himself just the day before, Sam’s skin was… perfect. Painless. There were no scars from Meg’s possession, or Bela’s bullet or the shadow demon’s claws, or even the werecat they had hunted when Sam was fifteen. Nor were there any from other countless injuries, countless close calls. The scar, _the_ scar was even gone from his back.

 

Dean couldn’t help but wonder again if they were doing the right thing, trying to turn Sam back. Maybe…

 

“Boy, don’t make me slap you,” Missouri warned, leaning in the doorway, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

 _Tinfoil caps,_ Dean wondered, w _hat were the chances Bobby had one lying around?_

Missouri raised an eyebrow.

 

Glaring, “Is there some sort of _lock_ or something I can put on my brain to keep you _out_?” he asked tersely, then turned to find Sammy a shirt and socks.

 

“Not that I would tell _you_.”

 

Dean could practically _hear_ her grinning slyly at his back. He rolled his eyes.

 

Finally finding some socks, after a tentative sniff, he knelt down and slipped them onto his brother.

 

“No wigglies for the pigglies if you don’t tuck them in,” the boy sing-songed tiredly as he watched him.

 

Dean chortled. He had forgotten all about that. When Sam was about three, he went through a phase where he _hated_ wearing anything on his feet—even socks. In the dead of winter, he’d run around their drafty, barely heated cabin without any socks on. Dean had always been chasing him down and wrestling something on him, only for Sam to shed them as soon as he was free—wiggling his toes in blatant mockery in Dean’s direction.

 

Frustrated and afraid that he’d get sick, or frost bite, Dean had told him _once_ that he wouldn’t be able to wiggle his piggies anymore if they fell off—which is what would happen if he didn’t cover them up.

 

Shit like this he remembers…

 

“Come on, then,” Missouri held her hand out to the boy, “I have something for you in the living room before you and your brother take a nap.”

 

Dean made a face.

 

After coughing into his ‘chicken wing’ as Dean had taught him, Sammy looked up at him for permission first. Receiving a _‘get outta here’_ gesture, he lethargically slid off the bed and took the older woman’s hand. “Is it a lion?” Dean heard him ask softly as they walked out the door. The corner of his mouth turned up.

 

Two old, worn work boots appeared in his line of vision. “Well, they ain’t Gucci, but I guess they’re cute.” The boots rocked back on their heels.

 

Confused, Dean looked up into Bobby’s amused eyes. “Huh?”

 

The eyes narrowed. “Boy, you look dead on your feet.”

 

“Ah, well, no worries there. Missouri has scheduled us _nap_ time and don’t you think I’ll be sharing the binkie,” he quipped, turning to search his brother a shirt.

 

“Good luck getting it off of Sammy,” Bobby deadpanned.

 

Dean snorted in agreement. He didn’t think the kid had let his jacket out of sight since he started using it as a cape.

 

Scratching the back of his head, they really needed to do some laundry, he thought, looking at the mess of clothes thrown about. It had been five days now since Sam had been turned into a child—though it seemed like a lifetime, and they were running out of clean clothes…and here, Dean had originally thought, _hoped,_ he had bought too many.

 

Finally finding the bag with the t-shirts, he pulled one out and froze.

 

Concerned, Bobby stepped closer. “What is it?”

 

It was meant to be another humorous one. Another great find. One that read, _“If found, please return to Kansas.”_ But it wasn’t funny. Not anymore. _Kansas_ had been crossed out and something was written underneath. Looking closer, Dean gripped the shirt harder when he realized it wasn’t _Sammy’s_ handwriting…but _Sam’s_ that simply read, “ ** _Dean_** ”

 

Closing his eyes, he clutched the t-shirt. “Sam,” he whispered like a broken prayer, not even noticing the worried presence behind him. Bobby didn’t say anything, though. There was nothing left to say.

 

“Dean! Look what Missouri got us!” Sammy called from the living room.

 

Offering him a moment alone, “I’d better make sure it’s _not_ a damn lion,” Bobby grumbled for show. He lingered for a moment, though, eyeing him helplessly before walking away.

 

Still looking down at the shirt, Dean fingered it as if it held the last piece of the man his brother had become. “Just hold on, Sam. Just you hold on.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

Walking out into the living room, shoulders re-squared and game-face back on, Dean pulled a shirt down over Sammy’s head that boldly read, _“Princess.”_

 

He smirked at Missouri’s raised brow. Assuming she knew about Sam’s, sorry, _Sammy’s_ brief flaunt into warrior princess-hood by one means or another, “It’s scary how well I know him, isn’t it?” he replied, “Though, I gotta say, the Frisbee fetish I didn’t see coming.”

 

Oblivious, wiggling his hands through the sleeves, Sammy then shoved his present up at Dean. “Look!” he exclaimed excitedly—suddenly appearing a lot more awake.

 

Kids. Like freakin’ yo-yo’s.

 

Dean whined. “A book?”

 

“Boy, you have to give the child something age appropriate when he’s like this.”

 

“Hey, we let him play,” Dean defended.

 

The stout woman put her hands on her hips, “With shotgun shells?”

 

“Um…”

 

“And what’s this I hear, you using your brother to get a date?”

 

Sammy giggled, watching the funny faces his brother made while he faltered. He tilted his head back and looked up at the lady. “You’re a hoot,” he mimicked Dean’s words from early.

 

Dean smothered his laugh with a cough into his fist.

 

“No, baby, your brother is just an idiot,” she winked, unable to help her own grin.

 

That had Sammy giggling even harder.

 

Rolling his eyes, Dean took the book from his hands. “He turned out just fine the first time, thank you very much.”

 

Missouri’s eyes soften. She smiled. “He sure did.”

 

“Will you read it to me, Dean? Pleeeease?” Sammy tugged on his jeans, then buried his face in them to cough.

 

Grimacing, Dean turned the book over and really looked at it for the first time. He nearly dropped it. “How’d…?” But looking up, she was already gone.

 

Lowering himself down onto the couch, Sammy immediately climbed up into his lap and got comfortable, spreading Dean’s leather jacket over them both. Patiently, he fingered the images on the cover—the cow, the moon, the writing that spelled, “Goodnight, Moon,” as Dean struggled with the lump in his throat.

 

It had been Sam’s favorite book growing up. He had him read it to him every night since he was two and they’d discovered it forgotten in some hotel room. It hadn’t been long before Dean knew the book by heart.

 

Finally opening it, he found that he still did.

 

  
~*~*~*~

 

“…and goodnight noises everywhere.”

 

“Don’t forget,” Sammy prompted, more asleep than awake.

 

Dean winced. He was hoping he would have nodded off by now.

 

Even after the last words read, the story had never been complete in Sam’s eyes until they had said goodnight to their dad—even if he was in another state, Cubby—a stuffed bear Sam had had for all of two weeks before it was tragically abducted by someone’s mut, but whose memory would live on in extended versions of children books forever, and each other.

 

“Sammy,” he tried throatily. He really didn’t want to do this. It’d just open more old wounds that had never completely healed.

 

The boy merely looked up at him, concern in his eyes because Dean had never _not_ finished it, and Dean knew he was a goner. Damn those eyes.

 

Licking his lips, the words were slow to come and like broken glass across his heart when they finally did. “Goodnight, dad,” he finally said roughly. Then, swallowing painfully, “Goodnight, Cubby.”

 

He was rewarded with dimples. “Goodnight, Dean.”

 

But Dean didn’t continue…he was wishing for a moment that Sam wasn’t the _only_ one three and half feet tall again. He was wishing for a weak moment…that he could start over too…and still believe that their father could hear them, no matter how far away he was.

 

“Now you say it,” Sammy prodded helpfully, softly.

 

“Goodnight, Dean,” he finally replied, the old joke coming surprisingly easy off numb lips.

 

Titling his head back, Sammy giggled, “Noooooo.”

 

Dean managed a brief, weak smile as tears filled his eyes and he finished thickly—saying goodbye again to an innocence he once thought he never had, but found himself longing for more and more every day, “Goodnight, Sammy.”

 

-

 

-

 

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

He can tell you ten different ways the silver lying around your house can save your life. He’s charged head-on towards things _nightmares_ would shy away from and hunts the nastiest sons of bitches hell can dredge up…sometimes even with a smirk. But he couldn’t do this…

 

He didn’t know _how_ to do _this._

 

_Jeezus…_

 

Finally stealing himself, Dean shakily took the small hand in his own much larger one— palm to palm…and with another piece of his heart falling to waste, called his brother to him. “Sam,” he breathed…barely.

 

As he waited, tiny warm fingers in his hand, he remembered them tying shoes for the very first time. Sam had been so proud, but no prouder than Dean.

 

They were the same little fingers that used to claw after him, pretending to be a monster he hadn’t learned actually existed yet…

 

They were the same hands that used to reach for him while crossing the street…

 

They were the same small hands that had eventually grown strong and saved his life time and time again…

 

_God…_

Grief already unbearable, face crumbling, Dean turned away.

 

He’d just been told that his little brother— whom he had practically raised since birth, whom he had no soul left to barter for…was going to die.

  

~*~*~*~

**EARLIER…**

“Why?” Bobby finally asked abruptly, watching the boys.

 

Standing beside the hunter, Missouri took a weighted breath. Contrary to popular belief, she didn’t make it a habit to go traipsing around in someone else’s mind…well, maybe at first to mess with them a bit, but when the thoughts and emotions were so strong…so _loud_ …they were near impossible to ignore. And Bobby had been silently screaming that very question at her since she had arrived…even after she had told them that Sammy was blocking the memory. The hunter was hoping she was holding out.

 

She wasn’t.

 

Shaking her head, “I don’t know,” she replied, looking on the same scene. Dean had _finally_ fallen asleep lying on the couch, and Sammy was gently snoring away on his chest, jacket draped over them. “I don’t know why Sam did what he did, or what he was tryin’ to do when he cut up his arm,” she answered truthfully. “But like you, I imagine it had something to do with his brother’s deal.”

Bobby shook his head, _‘Bunch_ _of stupid asses,’_ he cursed inwardly.

Missouri frowned. Not from his choice of…affectionate words, but because of his inability to speak them aloud. His throat was too tight, his words too laden with grief.

Somber eyes back on the boys, “They are brothers,” Missouri said quietly. “Family.” She grinned when Sammy stirred slightly, scrubbing his injured hand against his face while burrowing deeper into Dean’s chest. “They’re all each other have.” Arm already curled around him, though still asleep, Dean gently rubbed the younger boy’s back until he stilled. “They need each other.”

 

“Yeah?” Bobby words were gruff. “Well, _I_ … I’d like for at least _one_ of ‘em…” He shook his head. “I’d like for at least _one_ of ‘em…” he said hoarsely after a moment.

 

Eyes never straying from the boys, “Me too,” the psychic admitted tearfully. “Me too.”

Though both knew…it wouldn’t be enough. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Snapping awake, green eyes immediately landed on the mini-furnace asleep on his chest clutching his necklace. “Great,” Dean groaned, shoulders relaxing back into the couch as he scrubbed a hand down his face, “next we’ll be taping baseball mitts and picking out bait.”

 

Dropping his arm to the side, Dean watched his brother sleep. It was somewhat hard to fathom how much they’ve been through the last twenty-something years while staring the past right in the face. He could almost believe as the rest of the world fell away that…

 

He was eight years old again. Sammy was sick and clingy and had fallen asleep on his chest while they were watching _The Transformers._ It was late afternoon on a Saturday and Dean’s stomach was grumbling, but he didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to disturb his brother.

 

Their father was out, like he always was on Saturdays, but he’d return. He always did eventually and the leather jacket he left draped across the back of the couch on the unseasonably warm day was proof he would. And they’d be okay until then. They always were.

 

The weight on his chest shifted. Blinking, the world slowly came back into focus through a twenty-eight year old’s eyes. Turning his head, Dean wasn’t surprised to find the TV turned off. No _Transformers_. Without looking, he fingered the worn leather blanketing them, imagining the man that used to fill it. Remembering the utter certainty he once held that he’d return to it. He closed his eyes before turning them back to his sleeping brother. He still had Sam, though. He smirked. His own little transformer.

 

Slowly sliding out from underneath his charge, he froze when Missouri walked in the room. “You’ll never find the copies, baby. So don’t bother wastin’ your time.”

 

He scowled, but continued transferring his brother onto the couch. “If he thinks I’m gonna sit around scrapbooking this crap, the old man’s got another thing coming to him.” He made sure to keep his voice low, though, as he tucked the sacred hand-me-down back around the small sleep-warm body. No fever thankfully.

 

Moving to stand, he paused when his eye caught sight of something peeking out from under the couch. It was the book. Pulling it out, he fingered it—letting the memories it held wash back over him…until he suddenly realized he had an audience. Clearing his throat, he glanced up at Missouri self-consciously. What he saw made him tense. “What?” She was staring intently at Sam with a worried look on her face. He looked back at his brother. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, not noticing any signs of distress coming from the boy.

 

“He’s dreaming.”

 

Eyebrows rising incredulously, he turned back to her. “And you think that’s a good reason to scare me half to death?” he asked sharply.

 

Eyes still on his brother, her frown deepened. “Yes.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

“Sam and Sammy’s memories are like oil and water inside that head.” Back in the kitchen, Missouri struggled to explain. “They’re not supposed to mix. But…after so long of going back and forth in there…Well, the components start to break down and do just that. We’ve already seen that with their memories overlapping.”

 

Both men watched her intently, impatiently, arms crossed. Lowering herself down into a kitchen chair, she continued, “Their _consciousness’_ are remaining separate so far…but…” she looked on thoughtful, “as more of the oil moves in…it’s starting to _displace_ the water and vise versa. I couldn’t tell who was dreaming.” She shook her head, gaze distant. “Everything is getting so jumbled in there.”

 

On the other side of the table, Dean lowered his arms to grip the chair in front of him. “What does that mean for my brother?” he asked, brow narrowed worriedly.

 

“Well,” the psychic drawled hesitantly, “as their memories continue to break down and mix, it’ll get harder and harder for both to distinguish between what’s real…what’s _current_ and what’s not.”

 

“What…like Alzheimer’s?” Bobby ventured disbelievingly.

 

Dean made a face. “You’re saying my brother’s got some old people’s disease?”

 

“No, baby,” Missouri eyed him sympathetically; “I’m saying your brother won’t recognize you much longer.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

It’s incredible what just a few words, a few softly spoken syllables can do. They can steal your breath as if it never belonged to you. They can leave you standing numb and blind.

 

It’s incredible…that a simple, hesitant tug on your finger can jostle you to the core…and bring it all rushing back. “Hey,” Dean whispered throatily, quickly picking up his alarmingly swaying brother and holding him against him like he was the cure to a broken heart. “How’s my boy?”

 

Legs dangling, the small, warm body immediately folded into him, his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, his little arms tucked between them.

 

Swallowing the bile that had risen to the back of his throat, Dean cupped the brown mop. “You okay, kiddo?” His brother was trembling. Hell, _Dean_ was trembling.

 

A small nod, long lashes feathering against his skin.

 

Dean moved his hand down to rub the tiny back.

 

“He got a fever again?” Bobby asked.

 

“Nah…but…” The muscles under his hand seemed unusually taught…and the slightly labored breathing… Something suddenly occurred to him and Dean stilled, surprised. “ _Sam_?”

 

But he was already asleep.

 

His eyes cut to Missouri’s warm ones. “He just needed his brother,” she said just as warmly.

 

Not even trying to swallow the lump in his throat, Dean lowered his head onto his brother’s. “I’m here,” he whispered into his ear, closing his eyes, saddened that he ‘missed’ him. “I’ve gotchya.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

“Son?” Bobby watched, worried how Dean would react to the news about his brother’s memories.

 

Hugging Sam closer, Dean buried his face in the crook of the little neck. “He’ll know me,” he said gruffly and without an ounce of uncertainty.

 

And Bobby believed him.

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

He never saw it coming.

 

“Come on, kiddo,” Dean ran shaky fingers through the sweaty brown hair, frowning at the minute tremors still racing through the small body. “Open your eyes for me, bud.”

 

He had immediately lowered them both to the floor, Sam violently arching and shaking in his lap as Dean helplessly called his name over and over. He thought his brother was going to die right there…in his arms…again.

 

The seizure had lasted forever…or at least it seemed like it did. And now, still sitting on the floor with Missouri and Bobby kneeling anxiously by, they waited impatiently for his brother to wake.

 

“He needs a hospital,” Bobby repeated.

 

“They can’t help him,” Missouri murmured grimly.

 

Dean would have snapped…if he’d of heard them. As it was, he was focused completely and solely on the unconscious, impossibly small being in his arms. “Come on, Sam,” he continued to cajole, fingers running gently across his scalp. “Come on…”

It was a long and tedious five minutes before hazel eyes sought out Dean’s. The little body remained completely limp in his lap, though.

 

“Sam?” Dean called nervously, knowing he was right, but not knowing how…maybe it was the harsh breathing, maybe it was the pain in his eyes. Regardless, Dean almost wished he was wrong, because he looked so lost, so utterly…scared.

 

“Baby, he needs…”

 

But Dean was already lifting him up. You didn’t have to be a mind reader to know when someone needed to be held. Just a big brother.

 

Hugging him close, cheek against temple, “Why can’t you just color on the walls for attention like other kids?” But his attempt fell flat…even before Sam pressed his face into his neck…and cried.

  

~*~*~*~

 

He hadn’t cried long. He didn’t have the strength to. And soon he was passed out again in Dean’s powerless arms.

 

Leaning against the bedroom doorway, powerless arms crossed, Dean watched his baby brother. He was curled on his side, back to the window, sleeping restlessly…and slipping further and further from Dean’s grasp. His mind was getting so confused. His body so weak. Sam could no longer keep up a front and Dean feared…

 

He had always known how to protect his brother. _Always_. Since Sam was born, Dean had always _known_ what he needed. His mother had called it Big Brother Intuition.

 

If Sam were hungry, Dean would know it before their mother did. If Sam wasn’t feeling well, Dean would know it before he’d even cry.

 

When Sam was hurting physically, or even emotionally, Dean knew he needed a firm voice to gain his attention, but tender words or fingers to swathe the pain...and depending on the severity, maybe a few wiseass remarks to distract him from it all.

 

When Sam’s life was threatened, Dean knew and he stood in the way of whatever threatened him.

 

And when he failed, and Sam had died…Dean knew what he needed to do to get him back.

 

Maybe it _was_ “Big Brother Intuition”…or maybe it was survival instincts. Maybe Dean had inherently known all along…that he could never live without him.

 

Stricken, Dean closed his eyes when Sammy asked weakly, “Lay with me, daddy?” and leaned back to look up at empty air. Now his brother was losing his mind…and Dean didn’t _know_... he didn’t know…

 

With one last pain-filled look, he walked away.

 

 ~*~*~*~

John Winchester smiled sadly, looking down on his son. “Sure, Sammy,” he replied thickly, eyes full of emotion.

 

The scene was peaceful—magic even. Lying side by side they faced each other as the sunlight streamed in through the window, reflecting off dust motes and showering them in golden hues and fairy dust.

 

Cradling Sammy’s head in his large, calloused hand, John grinned as his son did. A father and son reunited. Innocence was reclaimed and love given a second chance. “I missed you, daddy. Where were you?” Sammy asked softly.

 

John’s own smile faltered. Brushing a wayward bang from the hazel eyes, “Are you being good for your brother?”

 

Sammy looked away, anguish consuming his young features.

 

“Son?”

 

“I can’t save him,” he choked softly, a tear sliding down his fevered cheek.

 

John furrowed his brow. “From what?” he rubbed his thumb over the tiny temple encouragingly.

 

Lips trembling, Sammy’s miserable eyes met his father’s. “From **me**.”

 

John looked taken aback…then heartbroken. The boy was so confused.

 

“Sammy…”

 

Sunlight streaming in through the window, the scene was peaceful, magic even—a long lost father lying with his son—a second chance, but it was anything but. The soft golden hues could not reach the dark anguish that resided in both of their souls.

 

And just as quickly as he had come, John was gone. …at least to _Sam_.

 

“Dad?” he whispered tentatively, uncertainty in heavy-lidded eyes.

 

John continued to lay next to his son, desperate to calm his fears—but the boy before him could no longer see him. Adult Sam was resurfacing and with them brought their father’s death and the memory of him passing…to wherever souls finally found their peace.

 

Stroking the cheek unnoticed, John struggled between the loss of his child’s affection…and the relief that his son was still fighting the effects of the spell.

 

Sighing, a rare tear escaped his seasoned eyes. They were running out of time. “Hurry, Dean.”

  

~*~*~*~

 

“You’re _sure_?” Bobby asked again, unable to comprehend…unwilling to believe.

 

Big brown eyes full of liquid sorrow met his.

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

Boots dragging across the pieces of his heart, Dean numbly walked in and sat next to his brother on the bed. It had only been about ten minutes, but he was curled on his side facing the window now, facing Dean and asleep again.

 

Dean would never get over how the once six-foot-four-inch frame that had trouble fitting on the bed…was now barely bigger than the pillow his head rested on.

 

_/ “I’m built for speeeeed.”/_

Throat tight, grinning crookedly, sadly, Dean smoothed down the bedraggled hair with his palm. Secretly he always liked the fact that he kept it longer. He considered it a small shout-out to their childhood… to Dean raising him. Sam’s haircuts had always been his responsibility, but the kid was terrified of any barber he tried to take him to. So, Dean resorted to trimming it himself… only when it’d get to a point where he could be mistaken as his sister…or their father bitched. Whichever came first.

 

That’s when he had started calling him Samantha.

 

He doubted Sam knew that. His thumb trembled as it smoothed aside the long strands. There was a lot Sam would never know now…

 

Eyes stinging, chin trembling he pulled away and wiped an unsteady hand down his face. _God…_ He couldn’t do this.

 

_Jeezus…_

He can tell you ten different ways the silver lying around your house can save your life. He’s charged head-on towards things _nightmares_ would shy away from and hunts the nastiest sons of bitches hell can dredge up…sometimes even with a smirk. But he couldn’t do this…

 

He didn’t know _how_ to do _this._

 

_Jeezus…_

Finally stealing himself, Dean shakily took the small hand in his own much larger one—palm to palm…and with another piece of his heart falling to waste, called his brother to him. “Sam,” he breathed…barely.

 

As he waited, tiny warm fingers in his hand, he remembered them tying shoes for the very first time. Sam had been so proud, but no prouder than Dean.

 

They were the same little fingers that used to claw after him, pretending to be a monster he hadn’t learned actually existed yet…

 

They were the same hands that used to reach for him while crossing the street…

 

They were the same small hands that had eventually grown strong and saved his life time and time again…

 

_God…_

Grief already unbearable, face crumbling, Dean turned away.

 

He’d just been told that his little brother— whom he had practically raised since birth, whom he had no soul left to barter for…was going to die.

_/ “Baby, that boy’s little body of his is…”_

_“Is **what**?” he demanded, looking between the two._

_“It’s dying, son,” Bobby finally said. /_

 

“Dad?” came a sleepy murmur that left Dean’s heart aching even more.

 

“No,” he breathed brokenly, “It’s me, Samm...Sam.”

 

Blinking, Sam looked up at him. “Wad…?” His breathing was already labored, brow already creased with pain.

 

_/ “It’s under too much stress, honey. It can’t handle the two fighting for control.”/_

 

The corner of Dean’s mouth turned up slightly, but sorrowfully as he looked down at the hand in his. “Jus’…” he cleared his throat, dislodging the lump that had already formed there. “Just checkin’ to make sure you haven’t gotten any smaller,” he finally managed, but left his hand were it was.

 

“Dean?” If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn that was Sammy.

 

_/ “Wha…” Dean shook his head. “Well there has to be **something**. We’re not just gonna **give up**!”/_

The older hunter fought hard to keep the anguish that was twisting apart his heart from showing on his face. “Sam…” he rasped. He needed to get this over with. He wasn’t the only one hurting. Just by calling Sam to him, he was causing his brother pain. It seemed he only got to talk to him anymore when he was in pain.

 

Brow furrowed, Sam tried to sit up, “s’wrong?” but Dean placed a hand over his shoulder and eased him back. “Sam, you can barely speak…”

 

So Sam grappled for the wrist his palm was resting on.

 

“Nothin’s wrong,” Dean lied. “I just…” The small hand tugged and Dean had never wanted to run from his brother so badly before in his life. But wrapping his fingers around the down-sized arm that was holding onto his, Dean tightened his jaw along with his resolve. “I’ve…I’ve always done the best I could for you,” he said roughly. “You know that, right?”

 

Tiny fingers squeezed. “You’re,” Sam panted, already fighting just to keep his eyes open, “scarin’…me, man.”

 

“Jus’ answer me,” Dean pressed thickly, miserably. “You know, right?”

 

Trying so hard to stay focused on him, Sam nodded. And when his eyes suddenly drifted shut, he squeezed Dean’s wrist harder, just as Dean gripped back—desperately holding on… “Sam…” desperately holding on…so he could tell his baby brother…

 

_God…_

 

…to let go.

 

“Sam,” his voice hitched, but he pushed on. He had to do this. “Sam…I want…I _need_ you to do something for me. You hear?”

 

The eyes struggled open and Dean’s head bowed under the weight of what he was about to say. He moved the hand that had been gripping Sam’s shoulder to cup the side of his face. “Sam…” _tying shoes for the first time…crossing the street…_

 

He’d just learned that his baby brother was going to die…

 

_/ “There is one way…”_   
  


_“What?”_

_“…but neither of you are gonna like it.”/_

 

…but he _also_ just learned…that he didn’t have to.

 

He squared his jaw.

 

He didn’t have to.

“Sam, I need you to stop fighting,” he finally pushed the god-awful words out. “Understand me?” He tightened his trembling grip, trying to make it an order as he met his brother’s eyes. “You’ll be okay, if you just _stop_ fighting it.”

 

Lips trembling, little chest heaving, Sam shook his head. He knew what it meant, just as well as Dean did. If Sam let go, he’d revert completely. He wouldn’t know his brother still needed saving. He’d never know the sacrifice he made for him and everything that made Sam who he was today, would die when he stopped fighting.

 

“Sam,” It was as much of a plea as Dean had ever made. “you can start new. Get a whole new life…I’m sure Bobby will spoil the hell outta you. And, hey, you already have that dog you’ve always wanted…” he tried pitifully, fake smile falling away painfully when it did nothing to help convince him to let go too.

 

It shouldn’t be so hard, damnit. Wasn’t this what he had wanted? Another chance for his brother?

 

Wasn’t this what he had wanted?

 

Shaking, Sam shook his head fervently, too worn to hold back a sob.

 

Closing his eyes—unable to bear seeing the pain he was causing his brother, Dean turned away. A tear slid down his own cheek. “Sam,” he breathed raggedly, searching for the words that would convince them both.

 

“No.”

 

“Damnit, Sam!” he hollered, turning back and jostling him slightly. Desperately. “You can _live_.”

 

“Not…” Sam whispered brokenly, near the end of his reserves, but not his conviction. Fumbling to latch onto the wrist still cupping the side of his face, he fought for breath through his own desperation and pain. “ _Not_ ,” he choked, using every last bit of strength he had holding his brother’s gaze, “without. **you**.”

-

-

-

 

Tears in their eyes they wordlessly clung to each other then—while one struggled _so_ _hard_ to hold on, and the other struggled even harder…to let go.

 

-

 

-

 

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiya to anyone reading this! I should be finished uploading this story here tonight. Also, I just finished and posted a new SPN video: Blaze of Glory which can be found on my lj under dragonfly_sg1 http://dragonfly-sg1.livejournal.com/169174.html

_“When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot…and hold on.”_

_Franklin D. Roosevelt._

 

 

It’s a funny thing; hope.

 

Like the last life preserver in a storm, it comes and goes on the waves. Few are lucky enough to be in reach, to be given the chance to cling to something solid.

 

Even fewer let it go once they have it.

                             

Head shaking, fearful eyes imploring, “Sammy,” Dean whispered despairingly, slipping on the nickname. When his brother steadily, bravely held his gaze, Dean looked away again.

 

The little hand around his wrist squeezed and he knew there’d be no talking him out of it. There’d be no talking him into giving in.

 

Closing his eyes, Dean squared his jaw. Then slowly he turned back to his ridiculously small brother; whose body, it seems, has _always_ been trying to catch up with the size of his heart. Resignation and trepidation were heavy on Dean’s shoulders…but so was relief. It wasn’t over yet. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he finally said through the sizable lump in his throat. “You know that?”

 

Dimples showing slightly, eyes closing, “Yeah,” Sam breathed, “but I’m **your** pain in the ass.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean rasped, grinning affectionately if not worriedly as watery hazel disappeared, labored breathing immediately slowing and evening out. “I guess you are.”

 

Watching him sleep, Dean thumbed away the last of his little brother’s tears. He raised one helluva stubborn kid. “What am I gonna do with you?” he thought aloud with a mixture of both fear and pride—something that had been racing through him a lot the last few days.

 

“We’re gonna turn him back into an overgrown brooding puppy, that’s what we’re gonna do,” Bobby announced, coming to stand in the doorway. He grinned and something they all thought they had lost shone in his eyes. Hope.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Sliding out of the wind and into the front seat, Bobby felt awkward—like an intruder behind the wheel, like an eavesdropper on one of the most treasured secrets of all time. But it was where he was needed.

 

Glancing in the rearview mirror as the backdoor of the Impala opened, he watched as Dean eased in carefully with his sleeping brother and quickly closed the door behind him. The storm that had been moving in on them for what seemed like days now was finally starting to show its ugly face.

 

Warmly cocooned in his big brother’s jacket, Bobby couldn’t help but grin when he noticed that Sam, like Sammy, was clutching Dean’s necklace as he slept. Even unconscious, he knew just where to reach out to find his other half.

 

Sam had essentially put his life in Dean’s hand when he gave him that necklace. The epitome of trust—but merely acknowledging that which Dean had already known all of his life. Sam was his.

 

He watched as Dean gently laid Sam on the backseat and just as gently pried the little hitchhikers from his amulet. Then, thinking no one was looking…or maybe just not caring anymore at this point, brushed Sam’s bangs to the side and adjusted the leather hand-me-down more snuggly around him. It was almost as if he were taking a moment…to hope.

 

Throat suddenly tight, Bobby looked away. The little shits could melt the hardest of hearts.

 

“Uh…whenever you’re ready there, Jeeves,” Dean said, finally settling in beside his small charge.

 

Bobby rolled his eyes. But they were still little shits. “Keys.” He held up his hand. “And we seem to be missing a certain bossy…”

 

Sliding into the passenger seat just as it started to rain, Missouri set a bag on the floor between her legs and turned to give Bobby a look. “ _Well_ , what are you waiting for?” she asked sharply as Dean handed him the keys. “This thing ain’t gonna traipse all the way up here on its own for us to kill it.”

 

Sighing, Bobby turned the ignition. It was going to be a long drive.

 

“Sam’s on my side of the caaaaar.”

 

It was gonna to be a **_very_** _long_ drive.

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

_/ It was midday. The sun was bright and the air warm as it swirled in from the open windows. “How’s he doin’ back there, Deano?”_

_The ten-year-old boy looked down and tugged on the ankle his fingers were supportively wrapped around. Curled on his side, Sam kicked him in response. “He’s good.”_

_John nodded. “Next time he won’t try to out eat his brother in pie.”_

_Smirking, the freckled-face boy turned back to the passing scenery. “Next time he won’t follow me onto the ‘Tummy Tumbler’ afterwards.” /_

Lightly jostling as they went over a bump, one hand over Sam’s little ankle, Dean numbly watched the world come and go from the back of the Impala. So many memories. Some good. Some bad.

 

And all so long ago.

 

It had been a long time since he _sat_ in the back of his baby. For awhile, he remembered, he actually refused to sit up front. Sam might need him. And…that was mommy’s seat.

 

He might not have fully understood what death meant back then, but, he realized achingly…he now understood nothing better.

 

“All I said was I’m not stoppin’ every twenty minutes for you to use the bathroom,” he heard Bobby snap, coming out of his reverie.

 

“Did I _ask_ you to stop?” Missouri argued back.

 

“As a matter of fact, you _did,_ ” he griped, “when you opened up that behemoth thermos of coffee. It goes through you like a damn sieve.”

 

Dean shook his head. He really needed to find out these two’s history. Letting their somewhat comforting bickering wash over him, he looked up at the tree tops swaying gently under the dark sky. There may be a small battle waging in the car, but at least they seemed to be finally moving in the opposite direction of the storm now.

 

_/ “Sammy let Missouri see the creature’s location,” Bobby clarified, tossing him his leather jacket._

_Catching it, “What?” Dean exclaimed sitting up and away from his sleeping brother, glancing back to make sure he hadn’t woken him. “What happened to **protecting** him?” he asked as Missouri walked in the room with Sam’s little shoes._

__

_Handing the shoes to Dean, she regarded the sleeping boy somberly with dark brown eyes before replying softly, “I guess something must have hurt him even more.”_

_Looking back down at the little fingers still wrapped around his wrist, Dean paled when she added, “Like not being able to save his brother again.” /_

**_Jeezus_ ** _._

Maybe there was a special hell for tricksters. Though, continuing along with how fudged up their lives were—the bastard had put Sam through hell, _hell_ …and it may just save his life.

 

It may just save _both_ their lives.

__

Wiping a hand down his face, Dean forced himself out of his thoughts again. They were making his head spin and his heart constantly scrambling for something to cling to.

“Who you callin’ _old_?” Bobby all but yelled at something Missouri must have said.

 

“I’m lookin’ at _you_ , aren’t I?”

 

“Hey,” Dean finally cut in from the backseat. “Don’t make me turn this car around.”

 

Clearing his throat self-consciously as they regarded him with equal looks of annoyance, he asked, “So, uh…Bobby, which one of the creatures you narrowed it down to is it?” There hadn’t been much time to discuss details while they all readied for the nineteen hour trip. The trip itself would leave them plenty of time to prepare.

 

Bobby’s eyes lost their fire in the rearview mirror. “Neither,” he replied gruffly, attention turning back to the road.

 

Dean’s eyebrows rose. He sat forward, hand still anchored to Sam. “Wow, great deduction skills there, kiddo. Watch out for that squirrel,” he added.

 

Easily passing the squirrel that was ten feet from the road and up a tree with a big ole’ acorn in its mouth without incident, “It’s neither because we were looking for something with a _name,_ ya idjit. Or at least something that’s been on the radar in the past three thousand years,” the older hunter and current driver of Dean’s second most prized possession replied.

 

Dean’s eyebrows rose even further. “It doesn’t have a _name_? What kind of parents don’t name…their…uh,” his brow furrowed. “What _is_ it?”

 

“That’s just it…” Bobby replied with a tired sigh, “nobody’s heard of it that I can tell. I don’t know if it’s workin’ some sort of memory voodoo, or what, but there’s no lore on it from what I can gather either. According to what Missouri was shown, Sammy _referred_ to it as _Vetus of Vetus,_ Old of Old. Part human, part mystery.”

 

“Huh,” Dean mused.

 

“It’s amazing the kid stumbled across it at all,” Bobby added.

 

“So, what does it do? Why’d Sam kill it? How _did_ he stumble upon it?” Dean pressed.

 

“We don’t know how he found it, but it collects rare elixirs and spells according to what Sammy let me see,” Missouri answered, “and sells them to desperate people in exchange for their souls.”

 

Something occurred to Dean and he looked down at his brother. Considering Sam was probably pretty desperate to find the trickster and get Dean back…

 

“I don’t think your brother made a deal with him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

 

“Well you would know,” Dean grumbled back at the psychic. Then, “So how do we kill it?”

 

“Considering no one has before except Sam,” Bobby said. “We’re not sure.”

 

“Sammy didn’t tell you?”

 

“No, honey. He didn’t.”

 

“Well, that’s just super.”

 

“We’re hopin’ he will before we get there,” Bobby admitted grimly.

 

“Right.” Sitting back, Dean looked up at the burdened sky. “Because everything has been a freakin’ sunny walk in the park so far.”

 

~*~*~*~

He was wrapped, cocooned in his father’s leather jacket and being carried in his strong, warm embrace. He felt the world float by, but didn’t have the energy to open his eyes or even lift his head from the shoulder it rested on. But he knew the feeling that enveloped him. Safety.

 

Coughing, hot pain sliced through his skull and he groaned, feebly bringing up his hand. It landed on the chest he was curled into and eyes still closed, brow pinching together, his fingers wrapped around an object more constant to him than his own memories.

 

He squeezed the amulet as realization hit and the present dissipated the past. _Dean._

  

~*~*~*~

 

“Here,” Missouri soothed, gently tilting Sam’s chin up and bringing the thermos to his lips. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but he drank as much of the herbal mixture he could before his throat caught again. Sputtering and coughing, he turned away and right into Dean’s chest.

 

“Easy, Sam. I got ya,” Dean soothed, rubbing his brother’s heaving back. He met the psychic’s eyes. “Well, that went well.”

 

Smoothing Sam’s unruly hair down, “Just you give him a minute,” Missouri reproached. “As the spell progresses it’ll be harder for the herbs to help him.”

 

Dean didn’t like the sound of that. “But they _will_ keep helping him right?”

 

Her hand continued to feather through Sam’s hair. Dean was beginning to wonder if she heard him when she said, “For now.”

 

Apparently deciding there was nothing more to say on the matter, she lowered her hand and grabbing one of the thermoses from her bag made sure she said loud enough for Bobby to hear, “I’ll be inside getting more coffee.”

 

They were stopped at some back road rest stop five hours into the trip to fill the tank and check out an unsettling noise the Impala had started making about twenty miles back. This was the first time since they started out that Sam had woken up enough to drink anything.

 

Watching her walk away, Dean felt his brother shift in his arms. “Was she… _petting_ me?”

 

The corner of his mouth turned up as he looked down. “What can I say, you got that kicked puppy look.” His grin fell. “How you holdin’ up?”

 

“I’m…” Sam coughed harshly into him, then rasped, “good.”

 

“Mhmm,” Dean replied sardonically, tilting his head back to see the pale, clammy face. “You look _awesome_.”

 

Eyes still closed, Sam grinned. “Jerk.”

 

“Yeah,” the older man mocked, smiling sweetly, “but I’m _your_ jerk.”

 

Sam’s laugh turned into another coughing fit. “Yeah, ya are,” he wheezed as soon as he was able. “My big, dopey…”

 

“Watch it, mini-me.” That earned him an amused huff. Still, a troubled look spread across Dean’s features. He knew Sam had already made up his mind. He wasn’t going to give in, but… “Sam, listen…”

“Dean…” He sounded exasperated and the familiarity of it almost made Dean smile.

 

“Jus’ hear me out, will ya?” When he received no protests he continued. “I know you’ve decided to fight this thing until the end, but…Sam, if the end comes and it’s either you letting the spell finish or you _dying_ … you let the spell finish.” His tone left little room for argument. “You hear?”

 

“Dean,” Sam sounded sadder this time as he breathed into his chest.

 

“It won’t come to that, I know,” Dean said with forced bravado. “But if it _does._ Sammy,” he again slipped on the nickname, his mask faltering as he looked on towards the horizon. He licked his lips. “Sam, if it _does_ …”

 

“You boys about done puttin’ your make up on?” Bobby called on his way back to the car, unaware of the weight of their conversation. “We still gotta get under her hood.”

 

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and the small body he held relax minutely. After a moment, Sam coughed weakly into him.

 

“Just promise me, Sam,” Dean’s voice was rough, pleading now.

 

Listening to the familiar, _thump thump thump_ , Sam responded with an equally pleading voice. “I can’t.”

 

Clenching his jaw, Dean nodded, blinking back traitorous tears. It was an answer he expected, but would never be able to accept. Not if it came down to the wire. Not if it meant his brother dying.

 

Sam squirmed in his hold. “Put me…down,” he said, trying to lift his head. It flopped right back onto Dean. “I can walk,” he insisted, face squished into Dean’s blue jacket.

 

Still reeling, it took Dean a moment to hear him. Finally blinking down at him, he forced his mask back into place and muttered, “Uh-huh.”

 

“Courageously…crawl?” Sam mumbled pathetically into him.

 

“Dude,” heart and throat still constricting, Dean swallowed dryly. “I doubt you could steadily slink at this point.”

 

Once again the corner of Sam’s mouth turned up and Dean shifted him in his arms, surreptitiously pulling him in closer.

 

“Where are we?” Sam pivoted his forehead against him, trying to get a look at his surroundings. It was warmer than it had been at Bobby’s and the sun was shining even as it was starting to set.

 

“Nebraska. We gotta lead.”

 

“From who?”

 

 _From you._ Dean wanted to say, but didn’t. He didn’t want to risk Sam trying to remember. He didn’t want to risk Sammy trying to make him forget. “From a reliable source,” he instead replied. Then, “You gotta pee?”

 

Sam’s head rocked back and forth.

 

“Alright, well I’m about to burst, so…” He was surprised when a tremor tore through the little body. “Sam?”

“I’ll just…wait here.” But he made no attempt to move from Dean’s arms this time. In fact, he burrowed closer.

At a loss, Dean just stood there…and burrowed back.

~*~*~*~

 

Hugging her warm and refilled thermos to her, Missouri leaned against the Impala and watched the scene on the hill with an aching heart. Both of Dean’s arms were wrapped wholly, greedily around his brother, his chin on Sam's shoulder. Sam didn't seem to mind. His own face was buried in the crook of Dean’s neck.

 

It was a candid moment of unguarded need; a rare moment where bravado and pride fell away completely, leaving what was left of a battered and beaten family clinging to each other and whatever else it took to get them through the rest of the day.

 

She didn’t think she’s ever seen them both so vulnerable before. Not at the same time. Not without one standing guard over the other with a determined, threatening look in his eyes.

 

A gust of wind cut across the land, rocking the boys. Leaning further into each other, they stood their ground. It was how they had survived every storm they’ve ever weathered. It was how they would survive this one too.

 

And Missouri was gonna stand guard over the both of them until they were ready to face it again. She had a promise to keep after all.

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

They drove through the night. Sammy seemed to be _trying_ to tuck himself away now, according to Missouri—which made it somewhat less painful for Sam when he was awake. The brief intervals when Sam _was_ awake, however…he was clingy. Not just a hovering ball of nervous energy; _clingy_ as in—pressed into Dean’s side, nearly have a panic attack if separated—clingy.

 

“It’s Sammy,” Missouri explained as Sam fell back to sleep under Dean’s arm. “Although he’s trying to keep himself in the background, his fears are bubbling to the surface.”

 

Dean’s brow furrowed. “What fears?”

 

She looked down at the boy, his inner terror reflecting out from her watering irises. “The fear of dying.” She said it so softly, Dean had to strain to hear her. And then his heart had to strain to comprehend. “He knows that by helping you…he’ll die.”

 

Bobby glanced at her from the driver’s seat and Dean’s face turned partially confused, partially incredulous as his mind denied what he was hearing. “He’s not gonna _die_.”

 

“In a way,” her sober gaze remained on the cuddle bug. “Sammy will.”  


At that, something twisted inside Dean. Something painful. Looking down at his brother, he couldn’t imagine a world where Sam lost completely what made him _Sammy_.

 

“We’re almost there,” Bobby announced, probably for his own sake as much as it was for theirs.

 

Dean pulled his brother in closer.

 ~*~*~*~

 

Just before dawn, Dean’s eyebrows rose as they pulled alongside a small cottage with wildflowers hugging both sides of a stone path to the door. “Uuh…BobBob? I think you made a wrong turn.”

 

They turned right on the road after the house and parked along the woods that bordered the property.

 

It was a straight, short shot that offered them cover of the forest and what remained of the darkness…if they acted fast.

 

Bobby and Dean immediately started loading an assortment of weapons onto their persons and into a bag. Sammy still hadn’t filled them in on how to kill the thing. They were going in blind. But they were still going in.

 

“Maybe we can just snake the juice without it noticing and get outta there. Come back and gank it later,” Dean offered.

 

Bobby’s eyebrows rose as their eyes met. “Think we’ll be that lucky?”

 

Dean thought for a moment, then gestured at something in the trunk. “Grab me that hand scythe too.”

 

Missouri came around the back of the car, tugging her shoulder wrap tighter around her. “He’s still sleeping.”

 

Dean nodded, slapping a clip of consecrated rounds into his 45. “Good. Hopefully we’ll be back before he wakes and makes like the static cling.”

 

“Remember it’s in the basement and looks like…”

 

“I know. I know. ‘Night in a bottle’,” Dean shook his head at Sammy’s description. “He was a girl even then.” Lowering the trunk hood, he pushed on it gently until it clicked. “Let’s go.”

 

As they entered the woods, Missouri called out softly and Dean turned.

 

“We’ll be waiting,” she said, raising her chin and clasping her hands in front of her. As in, ‘So you get your ass back in one piece, you hear?’

 

They stood barely twenty feet apart, but within that small distance lay a world of possibilities…that could all go wrong.

 

And wrong they would go.

 

Nodding, Dean turned and disappeared into the woods.

  

~*~*~*~

 

Getting in proved to be fairly easy. Actually finding the correct elixir among the thousands of glass bottles lining the shelves upon shelves in the basement…not so much.

 

“I bet it’s a bitch to dust down here,” Dean mused, walking down one of the aisles, looking for ‘night in a bottle’. Bobby quickly took another aisle, the lights from their flashlights bending and warping around the bottles. They had no time to waste. Daylight was breaking—already starting to shine its way through the basement windows and they were losing one of their advantages.

 

“Missouri didn’t say on what end of the basement it was on? Cause, you know, that would’ve been helpful.” It was surprisingly huge. “Maybe if we…”

 

Body tensing, Dean stopped in his tracks. Slowly turning around, he brought up his sawed-off. Stance ready for a fight, he scanned the barely lit room with trained eyes. The hair rising on the back of his neck told him there was trouble. Bobby sailing through air along with about a dozen bottles confirmed it. “Son of a…!”

 

Before Dean could even see something to aim at, he too was flying through the air. Hitting a rack of potions, he fell to the ground, gun sliding across the cement floor.

 

Whatever the hell this thing was, it was fast. And really, _really_ pissed.

 

“Not a morning person either, eh?” Dean quipped, struggling to his feet.

 

There was a flash of darkness in the morning lit room and Dean swung his hand scythe. The creature howled and black tar-like substance sprayed across Dean’s chest, but it wasn’t enough to immobilize it, let alone kill it.

 

Dean again found himself airborne.

 

~*~*~*~

 

He was tired. He was hurting. Bobby hadn’t answered him and he’s tried every damn weapon they brought, but nothing would bring the bastard down. Not a full clip of rounds into the black shrouded mass he assumed was its skull and not a sword straight through its neck. It just seemed to…instantly heal—the gooey substance filling its wounds. It was like trying to gank the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s super evil anorexic twin with a butter knife.

 

What Dean wouldn’t give for a proton pack.

 

His vision swam as he looked up at the creature after being thrown for a second time into the wall. Wheezing, “You’re… _really_ starting to piss…me off. You know that?”

 

A low, almost growling chuckle was the first sound the creature made. It slowly walked/floated towards the injured man. Dean tried to push himself up, but his ribs protested. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to be thrown this time. The Vetus was done playing with its food. “Sorry to disappoint you, fugly,” Dean breathed heavily, snarling defiantly, blood dripping from his brow and into his eye. “But my soul is already promised to sizzle on another hot platter.”

 

Grimacing, Dean pushed himself back as far as he could as a long, oily finger reached for him. “And these guys?” he panted. “I doubt they’re fans of double dipping.” At that he pulled the knife from his boot and thrust it up into the creature’s abdomen. He didn’t expect to incapacitate it…just buy him a second or two.

 

It wasn’t long enough.

 

Pain exploded in his chest and he screamed. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe as black boiling agony slithered through his body swallowing him from the inside-out. His world was quickly graying into nothingness, into hopelessness. _Sam_ was his only thought as…

 

It was faint. So faint. On the edge of consciousness and through the haze of pain he heard something. It seemed forever away, but it was gaining strength and closing distance. And just as abruptly as it had started, the pain stopped. Collapsing back, gasping for breath, Dean opened his eyes in time to see something shatter at the feet of the creature. A child’s voice rose high in the air with a man’s determination in a language Dean recognized, but whose words he couldn’t decipher. The creature howled in anger…then melted like the wicked witch of the freakin’ west right before Dean’s wide eyes.

 

Looking up from the billowing pile of hissing tar and ancient fabric, Dean’s eyes met Sam’s. Jacketless and showing off his “ _Princess”_ shirt; he was heaving, swaying and shaking before him. And then he was collapsing.

Ignoring his screaming body, Dean rushed to his brother’s side, catching him in his arms before his body hit the ground. “Sam?” On his knees, he pulled the tiny frame up against him. “Hey, hey…open your eyes. Come on.”

 

“What happened?” Bobby groaned next to them, sitting up. Missouri helped him stand, her worried eyes never leaving the boys.

 

“What the hell, Missouri? You were supposed to _watch_ him!” Dean yelled, then turned back to trying to rouse his bite-sized super hero.

“Don’t you use that tone with me, Winchester,” Missouri advised. “Ain’t nothin’ stopping either of you when the other’s in trouble. Besides…” Her tone and eyes soften. “The boy’s small, but he sure is…”

 

“I know,” Dean stroked his brother’s hair proudly, voice thick. “I know.”

 

Bobby was looking between the three. “Is someone gonna tell me what the hell is…”

 

Large steel doors sliding over their exits with a thundering jolt cut him off. “What the…”

 

Just as suddenly as they were all locked in, Missouri and Bobby were thrown violently to the floor as the building began to shake. Shielding Sam’s body with his own, Dean crawled to the corner away from the crashing bottles.

 

“It’s a damn trap!” Bobby yelled above the noise.

 

“Ya think?!” Dean hollered back, then turning to Missouri, who was stumbling around looking for the elixir they came for, “How the hell do we get out?”

 

Finding it right where Dean had been before they were attacked, she snatched it up and staggered back towards Bobby. The two made it to the cellar door with each other’s help and searched frantically for a latch or _anything_ that would release them from the deathtrap. They found none.

 

~*~

 

Tucked into a far corner on the floor, Dean curled even tighter around Sam when a light fixture crashed merely inches from them. “Now would be a good time to tell us how to get outta here, kiddo.”

 

Pulling away slightly to look at his brother, he was relieved to find him conscious, but…Dean’s bloody brow creased. “Sam?” He smoothed sweaty bangs aside. “Sammy?”

 

Studying him with a confused, unsure look in his eyes, “I know you,” the boy whispered slowly.

 

A stab of fear twisted in Dean’s chest and it took him a moment to find his breath, to center himself in a world where his brother didn’t inherently recognize him. “Yeah,” he replied, his words breaking along with everything inside him that made him…him. “You know me.”

 

~*~

 

Glass shattered, sending sharp multi-colored shards in every direction, sparks showered their bodies, wood and stone fell in resonating impacts and Bobby was hollering something…but in that moment the brothers heard nothing… _knew_ of nothing but each other.

 

Sam blinked. Sluggish, but determined, he slowly looked down at what was digging into his palm, at what he held so tightly. His little fingers uncurled and he knew instantly and said undoubtedly, “You got me.”

 

A hand immediately wrapped firmly around his and the amulet. Fierce green eyes bright with tears and conviction pierced his. “I got you.”

 

“Dean!” Bobby’s cries finally punctured their world as a beam from the ceiling crashed next to them.

 

Sam in his arms, Dean stumbled towards the older man. He was lunging for the now open cellar door…when the ceiling caved in.

-

-

-

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

He wasn’t going to say goodbye. He didn’t that night at Cold Oak and he wasn’t going to now. “Jus…just hang on, Sammy,” Dean begged, not caring the way his voice cracked, not paying heed to the tears seconds from falling, only noticing the breath in his little brother’s chest—every single labored one. “We’re almost there.”

 

Sam did hang on—for what it was worth. Lying in his brothers arms in the back seat of the Impala, Sam weakly fisted the leather jacket in his hands, tears lazily streaming from his tired, pain-filled eyes as they reflected the moonlight they chased.

 

“Sammy, just hang on...”  

 

It wasn’t ‘Sam’ or ‘Sammy’ anymore. Not in Dean’s mind. _Both_ were his brother. The boy and the man. And he was dying.

 

After barely escaping the Vetus’ lair before it collapsed, Sam had suffered another seizure and this one had left him unconscious and Dean beside himself for over twelve hours. _Twelve._ Sam was finally semi-awake now, but Dean was no less anxious.

Since Sam opened his eyes, he had stopped breathing more times than Dean dared to count. However briefly, every time his lungs seized without warning, Dean feared it would be the last. Sam was so weak, it was getting harder for him to reclaim breath and harder still for him to recover from losing it. He no longer even had the strength to reach for his normal anchor—Dean’s necklace, so he clutched at the leather that enveloped him.

 

It had taken eighteen hours pushing it to get to the Vetus’ lair.

 

“How’s he doing?”

 

“Drive faster.”

 

It would take Missouri just over sixteen to get back.

 

“Bobby?” Dean called, eyes never straying from his brother’s.

 

“I’ll live,” the injured and recently conscious again mumbled. Whether it was the concussion and large gash in his thigh, or his wounded pride from being sidelined to the passenger seat he was talking about, no one ventured. “Sam?”

 

Staring down into his brother’s glazed eyes, Dean didn’t say a word. His jaw clenched determinedly, though, and Bobby heard him as if he had spoken aloud. _He’ll live._

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

As the nerve-wracking, helpless hours passed, Sam’s body turned weaker and weaker. His grasp on Dean’s jacket and ultimately life loosening by every passing mile.

 

“Ya know,” Dean continued his endless string of nervous conversation. “When you were five-years-old you asked for a little sister.”

 

Sam’s breaths were coming rough and far between now, but his eyes remained fixed on the man that held him—on the man that had been holding him up since he was six months old.

 

“You never said why, so I just assumed it was so you’d have someone to play Barbies with.”

 

Shallow dimples and another unchecked tear slid free. “Well you…wouldn’t let me…play with…yours.”

 

Dean made a ‘haha’ face, but then found himself swallowing hard when tears unexpectedly threatened to spill from his own eyes. The hobyah may have turned Sam into a child, but _Sam_ was turning _him_ into a freakin’ girl. “Bitch.”

 

Instead of his customary response, Sam’s grin wavered. “Dean...”

 

“Sam,” he warned him off, looking away. Shaking his head, he fought to keep the tears at bay. _Jeezus_. They weren’t doing this. They _weren’t_.

Sam’s eyes were wet now, not just with pain, but with understanding. Forcing trembling lips upwards, from the bottom of his failing heart, he choked, “Jerk.” It was one word. One single broken word…but it spoke a million.

 

Tears falling, Dean closed his eyes.

 

And Sam stopped breathing. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Dazedly, he stared out the back window of the Impala and into the darkness. He searched for reason. He searched for the hope that kept riding in and out on the waves. He searched for the caves that he knew were miles away yet.

 

Sam had started breathing again before Dean could completely lose it, but he had been too exhausted to stay conscious. That was over an hour ago.

 

With a hand resting lightly on the small chest, Dean guarded his brother’s breathing and willed the Impala to go faster. He knew, though, that Missouri was already giving it all she had…and them some. Still, he feared, it wouldn’t be enough.

“Will you r-read it…to me?”

 

Confusion overriding his relief, Dean looked down with a creased brow. “Sam…what?”

 

“Read it…to me?” He was asked again.

 

Still not understanding, Dean began to shake his head. Until realization hit. Hard. His shoulders and heart immediately felt infinitely heavier. “ _Sammy_?” He sounded just as bad as Sam. Looking up, he caught Missouri’s eyes in the review mirror.

“The veil between their consciousnesses is too thin, baby. Sammy can’t fall back any further. It’s all up to Sam now.”

 

And Sam apparently was too tired to push forward right now. But he was still in there. Otherwise the spell would be complete and Sammy wouldn’t be struggling just as hard to breathe.

 

He was still in there.

 

Looking down into the face of the unselfish child—his brother, Dean was at a loss for words. They were, in a way, taking him to his death if all went according to plan.

 

_Jeezus…_

 

“Read it…to me?” Sammy asked again, eyes so innocent and pleading as he fought to keep them open. It was likely his last request and he probably didn’t even realize it. Or maybe he did.

 

Throat tight, chest tighter, Dean nodded. But he didn’t need the book.

 

“In the great green room there was a telephone…”

  

~*~*~*~

 

The closer they got to the caves, the harder the storm rocked the Impala and consequently them inside, but Dean kept reciting while images from the past week echoed throughout his heart and mind…

 

_// “She’s a lion and I tamed her.” //_

 

_// “Alalalalalalalalalalalalala!” //_

Swallowing, he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to speak past the growing lump in his throat. “Goodnight, noises…”

 

_// “Squeaky is clean.” //_

_// “When you died, it hurt **here**.” A tiny hand fluttered between their chests. //_

 

“Goodnight, Cubby,” he continued thickly, his thumb shakingly caressing Sammy’s temple as the boy struggled to breathe.

 

_// “Will you lay with me, daddy?” //_

 

“Goodnight, Dad,” his voice shook as a tear fell from closing eyes.

 

_// “Did you die again?” //_

 

“Goodnight…Dean.”

 

Dean could have sworn the words drew blood as he whispered them back with a finality he could hardly bear, “Goodnight, Sammy.”

 

_// “Almost.” //_

 

The car was silent. No one spoke. No one breathed. Not even Sam.

 

For a long numb moment Dean just stared at his brother, shaking and wondering what all he had just lost. Finally, he slid his hand under Sam’s neck and lifted him up slightly. This wasn’t over yet. It couldn’t be.

 

It couldn’t be.

 

“Sam,” he choked, then swallowing said more forcefully when he was offered no response, “ **Sam**.”

 

The Impala lurched to a stop with Missouri announcing, “We’re here!” and panicked, Dean shook his brother. “ **Sam!** ”

 

The small chest heaved and long lashes fluttered. Then Sam’s harsh breathing continued as if it had never stopped. Dean let out a breath of his own and looking up, found two pair of watery eyes staring back. “Let’s do this.”

  

~*~*~*~

Being injured and unable to move as quickly as Dean—despite his own injuries, it was decided by the older brother that Bobby would stay with Sam while Missouri and Dean cast a spell to clear the caves and surrounding area of all spirits. _Temporarily,_ Missouri clarified. The spell she had wouldn’t vanquish them for good. Much to Dean’s disappointment.

 

In the front seat, Bobby held the sleeping boy in his lap. His breathing needed monitoring and whether Sam liked it or not, his body craved warmth. Bobby had plenty to give.

 

He couldn’t remember a time…ever, that Dean had left his brother in his hands.

 

It was humbling, but also spoke of the older boy’s desperation.

 

Speaking of desperation; Bobby’s gaze wandered down to Sam’s bandaged arm. The jacket concealed the damage, but would never be able to erase the horror of seeing the kid limp and bleeding in his brother’s arms. Nor could it ease the gut churning worry of what Sam might have done.

 

Dean had sold his soul for just one more year with his brother. What had Sam waged to keep him from going to hell?

 

Sam took that moment to open his eyes and Bobby saw him instinctively search for his older half. “He’s helpin’ Missouri,” he reassured. “He’ll be back in a flash, kid.”

 

Sam’s eyes drooped closed and Bobby figured he fell back to sleep when he asked through struggling breaths, “He…okay?”

 

These boys…

 

“He’ll be better once you’re the sasquatch in the family again,” he answered truthfully.

 

Another long moment passed before Sam’s bleary eyes opened and studied him. “You?”

 

Bobby’s heart soared at being included on the checklist. “That goes for me too, kiddo,” he replied thickly.

 

Instead of a grin…even a weak one, an ever present tear slowly slid down Sam’s nose. The kid looked like he was in a world of pain. “Aw, kiddo…”

“B-Bobby…if…”

 

“Don’t even go there, boy,” the older hunter immediately warned. “This’ll work. And if it don’t, that brother of yours will find another way.” Something in Sam’s eyes, though, was telling him that his doubt lie not with Dean, but within himself.

“H-he’ll need someone…” Sam continued breathlessly anyway, “Someone that’ll…”

 

It was more than Bobby could bear. “Boy,” Tears blurring his vision, the most guarded places of his heart shattered. “I’m not gonna tell you again. If there’s one thing I learned about you two idgits, it’s that you don’t know how to give up. _Especially_ when it comes to each other.”

 

Hazel full of unimaginable exhaustion and pain locked with Bobby’s determinedly. “Promise,” he rasped, not letting the subject drop and summoning a strength Bobby hadn’t seen from him since the last time he fought for his brother.

 

He wanted to tell him no. He wanted to deny him the peace of mind so he couldn’t move on. So he wouldn’t give up. He’d just know he was lying though. “Damnit, boy,” Bringing the impossibly small giant of a man up against him, Bobby pressed his cheek against the mussed hair. It hadn’t been a hard promise to make to Dean either. He already loved both boys as if they were his own and he’d look after them just the same. Always. Closing his eyes, he whispered brokenly, “I promise.”

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

The wind was angry. Howling, it blasted them relentlessly from all sides, making it ridiculously hard to set up their ritual. At least it had stopped raining for now, Dean thought, as he finally finished up his part of the temporary vanquishing spell. A bright white light cut through the horizon announcing its completion and success.

 

Turning to find Missouri, he saw her carving something in the ground. Whispering, she then lit a match—which surprisingly and maybe magically stayed lit and let it fall to the earth.

 

“What was that?” Dean asked.

 

“A helping hand,” she drawled enigmatically, standing. She didn’t elaborate further and at this point, Dean didn’t really care. He hurried to get Sam.

  

~*~*~*~

 

Finally, _finally_ walking through the cave’s entrance, memories from the last time they were there bombarded Dean’s mind. It was only a week ago. One. And he swore he could still hear the shotgun blasts echoing faintly off the cave walls. Sam had been kicking and struggling against him then—demanding to be put down as he ran them to safety. Now…Sam hung limp from his arms, lips blue, barely breathing, barely alive as Dean carried him to what they hoped would be a tomorrow.

 

It didn’t take long to get back to the spot where Sam had been changed, especially since they didn’t have to fight their way in.

 

Everyone already knew their tasks, thanks to Missouri, and quickly got to them. Kneeling on the ground with Sam in his lap, Dean carefully stripped off the leather jacket and _“Princess”_ shirt to draw a few symbols on the small torso with a paste the psychic had concocted. Unlike before with the protection symbol, Sam didn’t seem to notice this time, or maybe he just didn’t have the strength to care. He just laid there compliant, listless...and tearing holes in Dean’s heart.

 

When he was finished, he dressed Sam back into the pants they had left in their mad dash to safety. He doubted his _Osh-Kosh_ would fit once they were through. He hoped they wouldn’t.

 

Candle light and flashlights lit the small cavern as Bobby and Missouri quickly worked on finishing their own tasks. Their quiet murmurs washed over Dean as he sat on the floor holding his downsized, shirtless little brother against him. This was it. The week of _Fruit Loops_ , ridiculous shirts, taming lions, princess cries and story books was coming to a dangerous and desperate end with Sam once again swamped in his own clothes. Who would have thought that something so innocent, would have turned into something so deadly.

 

Unresponsive in Dean’s lap, a single painful breath every few seconds was all that tethered them to hope now…was all that tethered them to tomorrow. “Come on, Sam,” Dean brushed limp, wet bangs aside tenderly. “We’re almost ready. You just gotta hang on a little while longer, okay?”

 

He brought his hand down and cupped the side of Sam’s pale face. “Sam?” he rubbed his thumb across the fevered flesh, suddenly needing to see those eyes. Suddenly fearing he wouldn’t again. “Sam, can you hear me?”

 

“Here,” Missouri startled him, “place him in the center.”

 

Looking up he saw that she had carved a large circle into the rust colored clay. His eyes shot to hers. The symbols in the circle were the same ones he had caught Sammy drawing throughout the week. Dean had never seen anything like them before. He just thought they were squiggly nonsense.

 

He should have known better.

 

Bobby tensed and Dean followed suit. “What?”

 

“We need a willin’ spirit,” he said grimly, eyes meeting.

 

“ _Wha_ …?” Dean breathed, heart and hopes plummeting. He had completely forgotten. “Well we just Zelda Rubinstein’d the _entire **county** ,_ how the…?”

 

“Dean.”

 

Hugging Sam closer, Dean’s heart quickened. Slowly he turned and looked up. Tears in his eyes, it was _he_ that could hardly breathe now. “Dad.”

 

-

 

-

tbc

 


	12. Chapter 12

“Dad.”

 

The spirit of his father smiled softly. “Hey, kiddo.”

 

Before Dean could say another word, or really even completely comprehend what he was seeing, John leaned down and placed two cool fingers against his brow…and the past became present…

 

~*~

 

_// “Sammy,” Dean admonished gently, looking up from his book. “Lazarus isn’t a pony…despite her size.”_

_Arms crossed, leaning against one of Bobby’s hollowed out cars, John chuckled not for the first time since he’s been back. He was often too lost in his own darkness to let it show, but his boys…they had always been his greatest source of entertainment._

_“Yeah, well, do me a favor and make sure Simba there doesn’t get snot all over that cape of yours.”_

_Sammy slid off the dog, crooned something in her ear, then ended up on his butt giggling. He always had the best giggle._

**_Always_ ** _._

_God, he had missed them._

_Walking closer and kneeling down, his grin widened to match his youngest son’s. “Heya, Sammy.” //_

_~*~_

_// Standing over his boys, John watched them sleep. They were exhausted. The both of them. And they were gonna need every last bit of energy they could get to see this through._

_Noticing a book peeking out from under the couch unlike the kind he usually saw lying around Bobby’s, John knelt down to take a closer look. He grinned, remembering the story and how Dean would indulge Sam in his nightly ritual. The kid had to say goodnight to **everyone** …including a damn stuffed bear he owned for barely a month. _

_There were many times…too many to count that he wasn’t there to say it back._

_This was not one of those times._

_Wishing Mary were at his side, he laid a hand over the leather that currently blanketed both of his sons. Rubbing his thumb over the well-worn material, he never imagined it would be sheltering them long past his own abilities to._

_Bringing his other hand up, he rest it atop of Dean’s head. He ached for them to feel his presence, to hear the words he denied them so many times growing up. With tears in his eyes and what-could-have-beens in his heart, he whispered roughly, “Goodnight, boys.”_

_Both still asleep, Sam’s face turned towards his as Dean breathed… “Dad.” //_

_~*~_

Heart stumbling, Dean’s breath caught.

 

~*~

 

_// She watched from inside the house as Dean ducked inside the Impala—brother held close._

_“Sammy let you see?”_

_Missouri didn’t startle. She didn’t even flinch. “He did,” she drawled, then turned around to face him. He flickered in and out before her, then appeared next to her looking out the window. Worry darkened his features. “My boys…”_

_“Are more stubborn than you ever were.” But she smiled kindly._

 

_A genuine grin met his lips. “Some of that, believe it or not, they get from their mother.” His face turned troubled again, though. So many odds were weighing against them. But these were his boys. Dean would get Sam what he needed and where he needed to be._

_And Sam would hold on until Dean did._

_Still…when one was in trouble, the other was usually blind to just about everything else. “Look after them.”_

_“You know I will.” //_

_~*~_

_// Glancing back to the car to make sure Sam still slept, “I’m not sure I’ll get another chance to warn you,” she turned back around to face the man she knew would be there, “But stay clear of the caves until I call for you.”_

_Standing before the psychic, John nodded. //_

~*~

 

_// The entire building was falling in on them. He could hear Bobby and Missouri pounding on the door, frantically trying to find a way out._

_He couldn’t hear his boys._

_Wasting no more time, he thrust his hand through the door and triggered the latch to open. //_

_~*~_

 

Gasping, Dean pulled out of the visions. Green eyes wide, mind and heart reeling, “H…” he breathed heavily. “How?”

 

“Everything will be explained. I promise,” Missouri replied, stepping closer. “But Sam doesn’t have much time.”

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Backing out of the hand drawn circle, Dean stood anxiously beside an equally as anxious Bobby. This was it. No turning back. No room for error.

 

His fists clenched nervously at his sides. No second chances.

 

Deathly still—but for his sporadically hitching little chest, Sam lay in the center of the circle Missouri had drawn. He looked so vulnerable to Dean, so exposed, so damn small as their father’s spirit knelt beside his failing body.

 

_Jeezus, this is it._

 

Dean watched as he placed a large hand over the bare sternum and leaned in to whisper something in his brother’s ear. Sam’s pinched brow furrow, but his eyes remained closed.

 

The kid always did sleep through the best parts of the movie.

 

“John,” Missouri prompted.

 

Hand still pressed against Sam’s small chest, he immediately bowed his head and started murmuring under his breath.

 

Missouri began her own incantation. Walking around the outside of the circle, she flicked drops from the elixir bottle over their heads. Instead of falling on them, however, the dark, glittering drops _lingered_ —hanging in midair _over_ their bodies.

 

_Night in a bottle._

 

Sammy’s girly description had just become literal.

 

“Son of a…” Dean watched in awe. When his brother opened his eyes, “Sam?” he went to step forward, but Bobby’s hand on his arm stopped him.

 

_/ “Okay,” Dean breathed out shakily, still on the ground with Sam in his lap, “We have a willin’…” he glanced up at their father, the word suddenly heavy on his tongue, “…spirit. Now what?”_

_“The most powerful person here performs the second spell.”_

_Dean looked expectantly at the psychic, but she was looking at…Sam. /_

 

Still suspended, the drops began to move.

 

_/ Dean looked down at his brother. Eyes closed as his body struggled for breath, one hand hung limply at his side while the other lay curled in his lap. No longer did tiny fingers cling to Dean as they have done for nearly an entire day._

_“ **Sam**?” Dean asked, frowning. He squeezed lax fingers in his hand, missing the hitchhikers. “He couldn’t win a staring contest right now.”_

_“Well it’s a good thing he doesn’t have to.” /_

Foreign words; soft and breathless began to tumble from Sam’s mouth. They held little force behind them…but demanded to be heard.

 

_/ “The most powerful,” Bobby mused warily, handing her matches and the elixir. “You talkin’ about his abilities again?”_

__

_“When the hobyah connected with his mind during the transformation,” Missouri answered, taking the items, “Sam’s mind rebelled. His powers allowed him to. And in that moment, when his mind met with the hobyah’s, it triggered a series of events to save itself that not even Sam would fully be able to understand until now. The spell you two did in the kitchen told us what we’d need.” She turned to where Dean was gently placing the small body in the middle of the circle. “Sam has to do the rest.” /_

__

Missouri lit a match and dropped it onto a symbol in the circle—one of the same ones Sammy had been drawing. Then whispering words so softly Dean could barely make them out, flames erupted from the engraving.

 

_/ Thumb brushing against his brother’s temple—gauging temperature, offering comfort, “He’s the one that brought dad here.” Dean’s eyes turned to the older man—still finding it hard to believe that he was actually **there**. _

_The psychic nodded. “Sam’s powers surged with the creature’s allowing him to reach out to your father. John had to answer the call, though. He had to be a **willing** spirit for this spell to work. Sam couldn’t force him here, even though he had the rare chance with the temporary power he possessed.” /_

 

Missouri lit another match and another, walking around the two as her whispers turned into commands. The atmosphere was beginning to feel alive, _charged_ and the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stood up.

 

_/ “Sam **is** the second spell.” This time it was Bobby realizing another piece of the puzzle. “That’s why we could never find it.” /_

Swirling, the starlit drops weaved around and between John and Sam in the circle, increasing speed and light as Sam gained strength with every word that passed his lips—words that had been buried deep in the hobyah’s mind and hid away in Sam’s until it was time…until everything was set into place.

 

_/ “Yes, in a way. It’s **in** Sam’s mind.” Kneeling down, Missouri pulled two small clear crystals from her pocket and placed one in each of Sam’s upturned hands. “These caves are full of residual power from the spell that turned Sam. It’ll help him with the transformation. These crystals, but mostly your father will help channel that power into Sam’s body.” /_

Flames continued to erupt as Missouri circled them—drawing on residual power as John guided it into his son.

 

The drops and crystals burned brighter and brighter, out-shining the candles and flashlights. The drops grew so bright and large that they completely encompassed man and boy. Dean could barely see them through the piercing light.

 

_/ Standing, Missouri finally turned to them and said, “We’re ready.” /_

Crying out, Sam screwed his eyes shut and Dean stepped forward, but was once again held back by Bobby’s grip. He went to tug free when a sharp gust cut through the cavern extinguishing all light. All Dean could hear was his own breath. All he could see was darkness…until a blue flash erupted within the circle, forcing him to bring his hand up and close his eyes.

 

When he opened them again, flashlights were working, candles were burning and Sam was… **Sam** ; six-feet-four-inches…and convulsing. “Sam!” Running over and dropping to his knees, Dean’s anxious hands hovered over the writhing body. “Saaaam” For once he was unsure how to hold his brother. For once he was unsure how to comfort. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Don’t do this.”

 

Long seconds passed before the seizure finally eased and Sam went limp against the earth. “Sam?” Panicked, Dean clutched at his shoulders, his neck, his jaw. “ **Sam**!”

 

Sam’s head rocked, his lips parted…and beautiful, _continuous_ breaths followed. They no longer sounded painful. They no longer sounded labored.

 

They did it.

 

Letting out a long held breath, Dean bowed his head, hands cupping both sides of his brother’s face. His twenty-four year old face.

Jeezus, they did it.

 

“Dean?” Bobby was the first to speak, but Dean was too busy taking stock of the _man_ before him. The deep lines of pain that had been furrowing Sam’s brow for most of the week had smoothed out considerably, his lips were no longer blue and the lump he had on his forehead from running into a low hanging doorway two days before he was turned…was back.

 

“Son of a bitch.” Dean whispered, thumb brushing against the stubble on Sam’s cheek. They really did it.

 

“Dean?”

 

Finally, he pulled his eyes away and turned to the two hovering forms. “We need…” But it was then that he noticed their father was missing. “Dad?” Alarmed, he sat back, hand anchored to Sam’s arm as he looked around the cave. “Dad!”

 

~*~

 

“Here,” John reappeared. “How’s he doin?” he nodded at his youngest, shivering as he tried curling into the nearest heat source—his big brother.

 

Shoulders dropping with visible relief, Dean pried his eyes away from him and looked back down at his trembling brother. “Hey, hey…” Carefully and easily—as if he were still small and fragile, he pulled Sam’s exhausted body up against his. “You with me?” He brushed straggly damp bangs aside. “Sam?”

 

Eyes still closed, making a few indiscernible noises in the back of his throat, Sam promptly buried his face in the crook of Dean’s neck.

 

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Or not.”

 

A grin only his boys could get out of him met John’s lips. He couldn’t count the number of times that Sam had hid there in the safety of Dean’s neck, sought comfort and fallen asleep there while growing up…or in the past week. It should have been him all those years that Sam sought safety in first, but he had accepted the outcome of his choices long ago.

 

Watching his boys curled into each other on the ground, John longed to stay, to set things right. To learn the reason behind the dark shadows in Dean’s eyes and Sam’s self-inflicted wound. He had returned to Bobby’s too late—only to find Dean clinging to his bloody brother on the living room floor…and desperation clinging back.

 

“Sam?” Peering down, Dean was squeezing his brother’s bicep. He was as eager to see those eyes, to hear his voice as John was…if not more.

 

But John would not get the chance. “I think he’s out, kiddo.”

 

~*~

 

Tears rushing to his eyes, Dean bit his upper lip and nodded. Slowly then, he looked up at his father—the man that had taught him everything from tying shoes, to pouring stainless steal rounds, to how to be a hero. The man he had fought beside, the man that had died for him, the man whose absence still resonated within him every single day.

 

He never got to say goodbye before—not when he died and not at Hell’s gate. He found he still wasn’t ready. “So uh…stickin’ around, or…?” he asked with a lump in his throat and the truth he already knew tearing through his heart.  


John didn’t answer, though. Instead, he glanced behind him towards the direction of the cave’s entrance. When he turned back, tears were in his own eyes.

 

Tensing, Dean’s arms instinctively tightening around his charge. “What?”

 

But John grinned, showing everyone where Sam got his dimples. Looking to Missouri and Bobby, voice rough, “Get my boys home.”

 

Moisture blurring their own vision, they nodded.

 

Flickering, John disappeared, then reappeared in the tunnel leading out of the caves.

 

Grief rekindled cut a hot, deep path down Dean’s cheek. “Dad…” Now he was the one sounding four years old—his voice hesitant, small…and breaking. He wanted so badly to grab onto him, to make him stay just a little while longer. When he first appeared, there had been so much he wanted to tell him, so much he wanted to ask. But, as he watched him standing there, a mere flicker from goodbye, he could only think of one thing…

 

Tightening his jaw, he looked down at his brother, his _life_ , and pulled him in a little closer. Then throat tight and memories long, “Who’d of thought he’d get so damn tall, huh?”

 

John huffed a laugh and Dean expected him to say what he always had. _Watch out for your brother._ Instead, he nodded and chin trembling, replied thickly, “You did good, son.” His eyes glimmered with a lifetime of pride. “Damn good.”

 

-

 

-

 

And then he was gone.

 

~*~*~*~

 

In the unbearable quiet of bated breath and breaking hearts, Missouri watched as a slow tear, thick with loss and longing rolled down a freckled cheek. Dean Winchester wasn’t _Demon Hunter Extraordinaire_ in this moment. He was only a son. A son that had just lost his father… _again_.

 

He wasn’t the stoic big brother that had spent an entire week feverishly trying to save his younger half. He was just an ordinary young man…with an extraordinarily broken heart.

 

Taking a tentative step forward, she watched as another thick tear fell from searching eyes. She could practically feel the echoes left by John’s abrupt absence crashing into Dean’s overly taxed body—wave after painful wave.

 

The heartaches these boys were forced to withstand would bring lesser men to their knees.

 

Reaching out, she laid a gentle hand over a trembling shoulder.

 

But these were hardly lesser men.

 

~*~

 

Closing his eyes at the warm touch, Dean scrubbed an unsteady hand down his face. Heart throbbing instead of beating, he looked down at his brother…and was surprised to find him looking back. A week’s worth of tension immediately rushed from his body. “Sam.” It was one word. It was ragged. It was relieved. It was… _everything_.

 

Exhausted eyes locked onto his. “Hey.” Sam’s voice was barely a whisper, but it was _his, **adult** his, _ and it had a resounding effect. The throbbing in Dean’s chest found its beat again. “Hey,” he echoed hoarsely, his hand automatically coming up to brush his thumb against Sam’s temple. It was a hard habit to break.

 

Leaning into it with a tired sigh, Sam blinked sluggishly. “Yal’ ‘ri?”

 

A weighted question if ever there was one. Dean didn’t know if Sam had been aware of their father’s presence or not, but he surprised himself by answering softly, “Yeah.” Surprising himself even more that he meant it…well, someday. “You?” He was, after all, the one forced into a morbid rendition of _Bobby, I shrunk the Sammy._

Sam’s eyes drifted closed and Dean was beginning to think he had fallen back to sleep when he mumbled, “Sas’qtch?”

 

Over the past week, there were times where Dean just…where he honestly didn’t know if he’d ever get his sasquatch back again, or if Sam would even…even… But thanks to their dad and a cave full of stubborn sons of bitches, including one puppy-eyed kid brother that just didn’t know how to quit, Dean got to keep the price of his soul. Shivering in his sleep, Sam turned and burrowed into his warmth. The corner of Dean’s mouth turned up. All seventy-six heat seeking inches of him. “Yeah,” he rasped warmly, tears in his eyes as he carded fingers through tangled brown hair. “Sasquatch.”

 

-

 

-

 

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

**EPILOGUE**

Headlights pushing back the night, windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm in the otherwise silent Impala. The boys were down for the count and Missouri was taking a powernap of her own. For the first time in a week, Bobby sighed a sigh of relief. All was right in the world again. Well, as right as it could be when you shared a world with the Winchesters.

 

Dean hadn’t said a word after pulling Sam across his lap in the backseat. In fact, the first twenty minutes of the drive, he had just watched his brother sleep—just watched him, before finally succumbing himself. Bobby couldn’t imagine what was going on in that head and heart of his. His own brain was having a hard enough time trying to wrap itself around the past week. And he didn’t just go spelunking with his dead father.

 

Looking in the rearview mirror, he wasn’t surprised to find the boys just as they were the last time he had checked on them. It was as if their bodies had been waiting an eternity to be exactly where and as they were.

 

Head against the window as he slept a slumber only the utterly exhausted could, Dean’s arm lay draped protectively over his leather clad brother who was just as deeply asleep in his lap. And Sam, despite his reclaimed fame to sasquatch-hood, still somehow managed to fit. Legs tucked in on the seat, the other half of him was curled up—back held against big brother’s chest as he lightly snored through the congestion that refused to relinquish its hold on him.

 

The two had a lot of healing to get through, and Bobby realized as he glanced back at their unified forms again that that’s exactly what they were doing.

 

He would have rolled his eyes at the sweetness of it all…if he weren’t just so damned relieved to have them both alive and relatively healthy. They’ve been through a lot to put it mildly. _A lot._

 

And somethin’ was telling him that the worst was yet to come.

  

~*~*~*~

 

Frown deepening, sitting on Sam’s bed, Dean dabbed a wet, cool cloth against his brother’s temple. He had thought this shit was over with…until, that is, he had awakened in the backseat of the Impala with an overgrown furnace in his lap. Thankfully, they were only minutes from Bobby’s then.

 

Sam’s breath hitched and Dean stiffened, waiting to see where the pain was coming from. “Easy…”

 

Writhing weakly, Sam panted through an agony that had been tearing through him off and on since practically the moment they had gotten back to the salvage yard.

 

“Come on, Sam,” Dean urged. “Where is it?” His brother’s muscles were so overtaxed that it was a herculean effort just to try and comfort himself. Finally, Sam’s trembling fingers reached up and gripped at the sheet over his thigh.

 

Dean immediately moved in. “Okay, okay, I got it,” he soothed, massaging the cramping thigh muscles around Sam’s clenching hand. Maybe Sam’s body had changed too much, too soon, causing the cramping. Dean didn’t care much for the reason behind them, he just wanted them to stop. “Easy, buddy.” He winced at his brother’s strangled breaths. He just wanted them to stop.

 

Finally, Sam’s body started to relax back into the mattress, his breathing slowing. His eyes were still pinched closed, though, as sweat beaded across his brow and with a pang of sympathy, Dean brushed wet bangs from his eyes. How many times he had done that in the past week, he couldn’t say. “Doozy, huh?” Sam either hadn’t heard him or didn’t have the strength to answer. He’d been like this for over a day now and the muscles relaxants and pain relievers barely seemed to be helping.

 

Watching him with a worry in his heart that he didn’t think would ever leave, Dean said softly, “I don’t know how much more of this he can take.”

 

~*~

 

Missouri stood behind him, watching like she had many times over the past week with a mixture of concern and awe. John may have left his sons as his legacy. But these boys…their _bond_ would be theirs’.

 

“He’ll be able to take it as long as he has something to hold onto,” she said kindly, motioning to Sam’s fingers, which were wrapped around Dean’s amulet—a self-soothing gesture carried over from Sammy. In fact, Dean was so used to the tug on his neck from the past week, he hadn’t even noticed.

 

Looking down, though, his frown only deepened. Sam’s knuckles were white. Placing his own hand over his brother’s and pulling it to his chest he started to rub his thumb back and forth across the knuckles.

 

Missouri watched as thumb never stopping, he said with gentle absolution, “I’m not going anywhere, little brother.”

 

And Sam’s fingers relaxed.

 

Legacy indeed.

  

~*~*~*~

 

“Sam?” Dropping to his knees next to his brother, Dean’s hands hovered over him.

 

“M’ kay,” he panted from where he lay on the floor, but he didn’t otherwise move. “Just give me a sec.”

 

Dean continued to check him over anyway. “Did you hit your head?” He went to inspect.

 

Letting him, Sam blinked up at the ceiling. “No,” he answered tiredly and with a hint of frustration that didn’t go unnoticed by Dean. The muscle cramps had finally stopped after nearly two days, but they had left his brother hurting and weak.

 

He sat back on his heals, giving him some room. It was a hard, though. Sammy would have been curled up in his arms already, letting him rock the pain away. He’d be lying if he said that he wouldn’t miss it—the tiny, warm body in his arms, seeking everything a big brother would always be willing to give. But now they were back in _no chick flicks_ territory and…

 

“I just wanted to sit on the couch.” Sam said miserably. “Scenery is getting kinda old in here, man.”

 

Dean canted his head to the side. “Can’t argue with you there.” He’s been in their room just about as much as Sam. “Still…” he stood, moving to help him “…you should have called me.” He hauled his little brother up under the armpits as if he still weighed barely more than a bag of salt. Sam’s long fingers gripped lightly at his sleeves and it was so reminiscent of the way Sammy used to clutch at him, it brought a lump to Dean’s throat.

 

“Come on, sasquatch,” he said, draping one of Sam’s arms over his neck and wrapping one of his own around his brother’s waist. Sam leaned heavily on him, his tried body nearing its limit for the day. “You know, this was much easier when you were only three and a half feet tall,” Dean grunted. He’d have had him in bed already. Snug as a bug in a rug, too.

 

“Dean?” Sam strained, body trembling as they neared the bed.

 

Tightening his grip, Dean slowed to look at him, concern creasing his brow. “Yeah?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Snorting, he nodded. “Shutting up.”

 

Sinking onto the mattress, Sam made a noise in the back of his throat.

 

Still eyeing him with worry, Dean asked, “You sure you’re okay?”

 

“Yeah.” But his answer was breathless and his head bowed. And when he let go of Dean’s sleeve, he immediately started to wilt and list backwards. His body had reached its limit.

 

“Whoa, hey,” Dean grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him back up. Body slumped, Sam’s forehead bumped into his shoulder and stayed there. “Oookay,” Looking down at him, Dean wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, “definitely time for all little sasquatches to be in bed.”

 

He was about to help ease him down sideways onto the pillow when Sam’s fingers clumsily grappled for the sleeve over his bicep before latching on. “Dean?” His forehead pressed into his shoulder more.

 

Dean paused. “Yeah?” His concern grew again. He waited for a reply, but instead, Sam’s fingers loosened and his hand dropped into the crook of Dean’s elbow. He had fallen asleep.

 

In his arms.

 

Heart filling, Dean smirked softly and lightly squeezed the back of his little brother’s neck. “Once a cuddle bug, always a cuddle bug.”

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

After a much needed hot bath that had left him more exhausted than refreshed, Sam leaned over the sink and willed himself to remain on his feet. It was hard enough convincing Dean to let him out of his sight…even four days after he was turned into a “big boy.” If he ended up on the floor again, his “big boy” bathroom privileges would be revoked and he’d be forced to adhere to the buddy system for…well, the rest of his life likely.

 

Everything was just so damn taxing. After the stress of the spells, his cold, and the muscles cramps, he could barely keep his eyes open. Maybe, as Dean would say, he just needed to get used to lugging his gigantor body around again.

 

Sam could only hope. He had a lot of work to do.

 

Looking up into the fogged glass, he wiped a hand over the mirror. The image staring back was no longer that of a little boy, and for a moment he found himself missing…him.

 

He didn’t miss having to stack books to wash his hands. He didn’t miss the endless humiliation.

 

He’d missed the proof, the _reminder,_ that somewhere buried deep inside him…there had been innocence after all.

 

But what was lost was lost. He had to look ahead to what he still had a chance of saving. Because also buried was something else Sam needed even more. His gaze wandered down to the long, thin scar left behind on his arm. Sammy had buried whatever spell he had tried for Dean deep before…. He had buried it so deep, Sam feared he’d never find it.

 

Placing a hand against the mirror, he studied his reflection much like he had when he was first turned into a child. Instead of reaching for the man this time, however…he tried grasping for the secrets of the boy who once resided within.

 

Had he saved his brother? Or was he still losing him?

  

~*~*~*~

 

“Sam,” Dean growled at the empty bathroom. His brother knew he was supposed to wait for him. Overtaxed muscles had a hard time supporting sasquatches and Dean liked to be next to him when he walked more than a few feet in case his legs gave out. Like they had already. A _few_ times.

 

“Damnit, Sam.” He turned and started walking through the house. “Sam?” he called, searching as the fear slowly started to build. What if he had tried to go outside again? What if he had…

 

Dean was about to go into full blown Defcon One mode when he finally spotted him in the bedroom. Slowing his steps as the worry instantly fell away, he sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. _God…_ He rolled his eyes at himself. He was acting like a first-time mother.

Walking to the doorway, he leaned against the doorframe. Shaking his head, a fond grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Sometimes, if it weren’t for the gigantor body Dean’d swear….

“Squeaky clean?”

Curled up on the bed, Sam opened his eyes at his question. “Hmm?”

 

Huffing out a small breath, Dean looked down at his boots. He shook his head again, this time with a sad smile. “Nothin’.” Then scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, he straightened. “Not much of a blanket anymore, is it?” he gestured at what lay over his brother, quick to change the subject—afraid of not hearing the response Sammy had given him what seemed like ages ago.

 

“Warm,” Sam replied easily, closing his eyes.

 

Walking over, Dean sat on the bed in front of his bent legs. Sam was lying on top of the covers, but had Dean’s leather jacket pulled over him. It didn’t cover him entirely or swamp him like it had for a week, of course—something that became startling clear when Dean helped his shivering body back into it before stumbling out of the caves. “Miss your binky, did ya?” he asked, reaching over and checking for fever, happy to find none.

 

“Too tired to untuck the covers,” the recently re-sasquatched mumbled unphased, not bothering to open his eyes. The kid… _man_ …nah, _kid¸_ slept _a lot_ , especially since the cramps had eased off. He slept _a lot, a lot._ So much so, that sometimes Dean swore he had traded a Frisbee wielding warrior princess for a narcoleptic sasquatch.

 

Eyes still closed, his brother’s brow furrowed, almost as if he had heard Dean’s thoughts. “Was Missouri in the military?” he asked instead.

 

Dean looked down at the bed. You _could_ bounce a coin off the sheets when the psychic was done with them. “ _Nothing_ would surprise me when it comes to that woman.”

 

Sam grunted his agreement.

 

Dean gave a cursory tug on one of the corners. It didn’t budge. “Huh,” he mused. “Maybe she was part of that _New Earth Army_ thing.”

 

The corner of Sam’s mouth turned up. “Staring at old goats?”

 

“Have you _seen_ the evil looks she gives Bobby?”

 

Sam outright laughed this time, his bright eyes meeting Dean’s for a moment before closing again—which Dean was grateful for because his own eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. He hadn’t heard Sam, _adult_ Sam laugh like that in _way_ too damn long.

“Hey, Sam?” He watched as everything he breathed for took in his own blessedly unlabored breaths—his coughing having _finally_ eased off too.

 

“Yeah,” his _big,_ little brother drawled sleepily.

 

“Don’t you ever do that again.”

 

~*~

 

For a week, Sam had practically lived in Dean’s leather jacket. It was Sammy’s security blanket, the cape that had given him his super powers, and it was a reminder to Sam that he wasn’t alone in this. Though, even as it had filled him with a sense of unparalleled and never-to-be-spoken-of comfort and safety... it was also so heavy. Even now.

 

Lying under the protection of guardians present and past, hearing his big brother’s demand, Sam wondered if it reflected the weight on the men’s shoulders that have worn it. And how much of that weight was him?

 

“Sam?”

 

“I solemnly swear I will never get turned into a four-year-old again.”

 

“Sam.” Even with his eyes closed, he could hear the warning, the seriousness, the _pleading_ in Dean’s voice.

 

But it was a promise he could never make. Opening his eyes, he met his brother’s…and they both knew the answer.

 

~*~

 

Really, Dean should have known better by now anyway. Asking, or _demanding_ Sam not to worry him like that again, or pull stupid stunts that may or may not get him out of his deal—Sam still couldn’t remember what spell he had tried in Bobby’s bathroom—would get him nowhere.

 

If Dean had learned anything from the past week, it was that Sam was just as stubborn as he was at doing _whatever_ it took to keep his brother safe.

Even as he looked on with worry, pride tugged at his heart. Sometimes it seemed like they grew up right in front of your eyes, didn’t it?

 

Ducking his head, he grinned.

 

Sometimes _literally_.

 

“You, uh…” Rubbing absently at his brow, he cleared his throat and tried dislodging some of that worry—but most of it had been permanently built in since he signed his Big Brother card. Head still down, he glanced over at his younger…and now again, his _much larger_ half. “People are gonna think we really have a sasquatch holed up in here if you don’t shave soon.” Of course, he hadn’t shaved, or even _needed_ to for over a week. Another day wouldn’t hurt.

 

Sam was gracious enough to ignore Dean’s continued rampant Big Brother Mode. “Uh huh.”

 

“Well, at least you smell better.” When a particular scent caught his senses, though, Dean straightened where he sat and raised an eyebrow at him. “You used the SpongeBob shampoo Missouri got you,” he accused flatly. “Didn’t you.”

 

The corner of Sam’s mouth turned up. “It smells like bubblegum.”

 

Staring down at him in disbelief, Dean blinked. “You are _such_ a girl.” His eyes suddenly shot upwards. “Wait. We _did_ add the sage, right?”

 

Sam pushed him with his legs, almost knocking him off the bed. “ _Jerk_.”

 

Instead of overflowing with goodbye like last time, the word was only weighted with affection... but it still cut straight to Dean’s heart. He didn’t know what he would have done if….

 

“Boooys!” Missouri called from the kitchen. “Lunch!”

 

Ignoring the voice in his head that said that _he_ was actually the one acting like a big girl, Dean righted himself and gave his brother’s legs a playful shove while returning the sentiment with a tight throat…and an enormously relieved heart. “ _Bitch._ ”

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Ten bucks on the mutt.”

 

The sky was blue, the sun was warm and Sam was doing a…Singer form of physical therapy. Poorly. Dean shook his head in dismay.

 

Watching the same scene next to him, Bobby asked seemingly out of nowhere, “Were you ever worried?”

 

Dean glanced sideways at him. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific there, Bobby.” The past couple of weeks he’s done nothing but.

 

“When Sammy…when he…died, or let go, or _whatever_ …” He paused and Dean turned to him again. “Are you ever worried,” he finally continued, searching for the words, “I dunno…that Sam has _lost_ a piece of himself, or somethin’?”

 

Dean had, in fact, worried.

 

/ _“Goodnight…Dean.” /_

But…he thought about how, like it has always been, Sam still preferred Dean’s jacket to blankets. He thought about how he used the SpongeBob shampoo because he knew Dean would get a kick out of it, and how Dean was still the first thing Sam looked for when he opened his eyes.…

 

Dean watched as his gargantuan little brother was tugged around on his butt by Lazarus—both refusing to relinquish their hold on the Frisbee. His grin spread slowly, but reached deep and warmed a part of him, he didn’t realize until then, that still needed it. “Nah.”

 

Munchkin or Sasquatch. Sammy was Sammy.

 

The sky was blue, the sun was warm and Dean Winchester had his brother back. All of him. But he was about to lose his hard earned ten bucks. “Dude!” he yelled and brought his arms up from his sides in outraged disappointed. “Where the hells your cape?!”

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Do you have the sudden urge to wear my jacket as a cape, or crawl into my lap and read a bedtime story?”

 

Sam gave him an exasperated look. “ **No** , Dean. Now stop with the daily interrogations. I’m fine. It’s been over a week. The reversal spell hasn’t, _nor will it **ever** _ wear off.”

 

Dean eyed him skeptically for a moment. “Whatever you say, Samantha,” then knelt down and started rummaging through his duffel for clean clothes.

 

Shaking his head, Sam sat on the couch and opened his laptop. They were all packed up and ready to head out when Dean thought he’d give the Impala an oil change before leaving Bobby’s.

 

“Hey, did I ever tell you _why_ I started calling you Samantha?” he asked as he stood.

 

“Dean!” Sam snapped, but not unkindly. “ _Shower!_ ” he pointed towards the bathroom. The man was covered in grease and oil from the car.

 

Dean made a face. “Pushy-pants.” Then pouted his way across the room.

 

Shaking his head with a huge grin, Sam turned back to his laptop and settled in to do some research.

  

~*~*~*~

 

Twenty minutes later, Dean called from the bathroom. “Hey, can you get my shaving kit?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Sam replied distractedly and got up to search his brother’s bag on the floor. His fingers brushed against something hard, and brow furrowing, he pulled it out from under the clothes.

 

His expression softened as his fingers danced over the cow and the moon and the writing that spelled, “Goodnight, Moon.” He had thought this memory was just a dream, but apparently it wasn’t. And Dean had kept the book. Tears filled his eyes.

 

Something fell to the ground from between the pages and Sam automatically reached down to retrieve it. Upon seeing what it was, however, his fingers snatched them up furiously. “Deaaan!” he hollered.

 

Blue jeans on, tooth brush in his mouth and wet hair sticking out every which way, Dean peeked sideways out of the bathroom with a look of confusion on his face. “ _What_?”

 

Sam held up the pictures and Dean choked on the toothbrush. Disappearing into the bathroom again, Sam heard the water run before his brother reappeared with a black t-shirt on.

 

“ _Tell_ me you’re not seriously planning on keeping these.” Sam clenched his jaw. They were pictures from his…downsized week. He flipped through them to find Xena poses and various other ones of him running around acting like an idiot. There was even one where he had a _Fruit Loop_ up his nose while sleeping. He slowed when he came across a few with him on Dean’s shoulder. Bobby must have snapped them without either of them knowing. He stopped on the one after he had finally gotten Dean down. They were both lying on the ground, looking at each other with huge stupid grins on their faces. Sam couldn’t help the smile that met his own lips. He flipped to the last picture. It was another of him and Dean. They were lying on the couch. Sam… _Sammy_ was on Dean’s stomach, covered by the leather jacket and they were both fast asleep. _Goodnight, Moon_ peaked out from under the couch from where it must have fallen.

 

“You’re not gonna kick me in the shins again, are you?”

 

Sam huffed a laugh and sniffing, blinked back the tears. “Nah,” he placed the pictures back in the book. As humiliating and even life-threatening as the week had been…it wasn’t without its good memories. And those were worth keeping. “Just as long as they don’t end up on Facebook.” He slid the book back inside his brother’s duffle.

 

Dean raised his eyebrows worriedly. “Does Bobby know how to use Facebook?”

 

“I doubt he even knows what Facebook _is_.”

 

Dean shot a finger off at him. “Then I think we’re safe.”

 

Sam nodded, a shy smile playing across his lips. “Hey Dean?”

 

“Yeah,” his older brother replied distractedly, placing the duffle on the couch. He still needed to find his shaving kit.

 

“Thanks, ya know…” Sam shrugged self-consciously. “For not giving up.”

 

“Aw, Squeaks,” Dean gushed mockingly.

 

Sam rolled his eyes.

 

“Just out of curiosity,” Dean asked a moment later, “what was one of the first things you thought when you were finally a sasquatch again?”

 

Sam’s face scrunched up as he thought. “Mamabear, what happened to your lap?”

 

Now Dean’s face was scrunched up. Sam laughed. “Never mind.” _Dean did it._ “Nothing I already didn’t know.”

 

Accepting his answer with a nod, Dean turned back to his duffle. Finally finding his shaving kit, he pulled it out.

 

“Just…out of curiosity,” Sam parroted back before his brother could disappear into the bathroom again, “what would you have done if you couldn’t turn me back?”

 

“Aw, Sammy, you’ll always be my sasquatch.”

 

“Dean.” Sam rolled his eyes again, but couldn’t help the small grin that tugged at his lips. “Seriously, what would you have done?”

 

The older brother thought on it for a second. “Gotten you a pea shooter and a harness?”

 

“Dude,” Sam paused, face twisting. “Wait. A _harness_? For what?”

 

Dean gave him a ‘well duh’ look in return. “To strap you onto my back. I would have strapped you on backwards too, so it’d be like I had eyes in the back of my head.” He nodded enthusiastically, but the nod slowed and his face fell at the look on Sam’s. “You _are_ gonna kick me in the shins now.”

 

“Well,” Sam reminded him with a sage grin, “I _did_ bring you down when I was only three-and-a-half feet tall.”

 

Giving his best, _‘Oh, is that how it’s gonna be’_ face, Dean tossed his shaving kit onto the couch. “Bring it on, _Squeaks_.” He taunted with his hands. “Though, I don’t see any _conveniently_ placed rocks in here, so…”

 

A cacophony of noises sounded from the living room before a loud, surprised squeal echoed across the salvage yard. The backdoor flung open and Sam bolted down the steps.

 

“Hey!” Dean appeared a second later, hopping on one foot as he tugged on his boots. “Tickling is _cheating_!” he hollered. “Sam!” he ran after his laughing sasquatch of a little brother. “Saaammyyy!” 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Sam pulled away from Bobby’s tight embrace. “Don’t go gettin’ yourself turned into a poodle or anything,” the older hunter warned.

 

Sam laughed. “I won’t.” He then turned to Missouri who had tears in her eyes and a basket of food in her grasp. “Now don’t you go lettin’ your brother eat all of this.” She gestured down at the basket, trying to keep her tone light. “There’s plenty for the _both_ of you for _at least_ a few days.” She handed the basket to him and promptly pulled him into a fierce hug.

 

“Thanks,” he said hugging back. He didn’t know where he’d be if it weren’t for her and Dean and Bobby.

 

And Dad.

 

Missouri pulled from the embrace and cupped the side of his face. “Don’t you be a stranger now, ya hear?”

 

He smiled. “We won’t.”

 

It had been over two weeks since the hobyah had turned Sam, and he and Dean were eager to get back on the road and just… _be_ for a little while. No major hunts, just a ghost here, or a vampire there to start them back into the swing of things.

 

Sam, of course had already continued his search for a way to save Dean from his deal, but as each day passed, he was filled more and more with the unfamiliar feeling that everything would be okay. He didn’t know why…if it was because of the spell he had performed when he was downsized, or what, but…he just knew.

 

He turned to look where Dean was leaning against the Impala, legs crossed, head down, waiting for him after saying his own goodbyes. _Yeah_. Something in Sam’s heart unclenched. He just knew.

 

With one last smile, Sam started towards his brother and a future he had much more confidence in.

 

Dean sensed his approached and smiled a smile that never, in twenty-four years, failed to make Sam feel like he was the most important thing in his big brother’s world. He smiled a little brother’s hero worshipping smile right back at him.

 

And Dean’s smile grew.

 

His big brother then nodded, gesturing behind Sam as he uncrossed his legs and straightened. “You really think it’s a good idea to leave those two alone together?”

 

Full on dimples, Sam turned around. “My money’s on Missouri.”

 

Dean canted his head to the side in agreement as he opened the driver’s side door. “And all she’d have to do is stare at him.”

 

~*~

 

Once they were in the car, Dean immediately took the basket Missouri had given Sam. Opening the lid, he gave an appreciative sniff before placing it on the backseat. The way his brother shifted in his own seat caused him to tense. It was the, I-have-something-I-wanna-get-off-my-chest shift. He was about to tell his brother just to spit it out already when…

 

“I remember.”

 

Dean barely heard the softly spoken words as he settled behind the wheel, but somehow he knew it wasn’t the spell he was talking about. Somehow he knew, with an aching heart, what, or actually _who_ Sam was talking about, but the evasive reply was out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Remember what?” He wasn’t even sure until now that Sam had remembered him. There were a few times in the past week where he almost brought him up, but …maybe Dean was still processing himself.

                                   

Head down, Sam smiled. “Dad,” he said gently, then turned to stare out the passenger window.

 

Dean’s heart skipped a beat at the confirmation.

 

“He uh…” Sam surprised Dean by laughing. “I think…I remember bits and pieces and…I think he played tic-tac-toe in the dirt with Sammy.”

 

Painful grip on his heart loosening, Dean’s eyebrows rose. “ _Our_ dad?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Played tic-tac-toe,” he repeated incredulously.

 

Sam’s smile grew as he looked to Dean. “Yeah.”

 

Puzzled, Dean shook his head minutely. “Did he make you do laps for losing?”

 

“Actually, he let me…Sammy, _whatever,”_ he rolled his eyes, “win.”

 

“ _Our_ dad?”

 

Sam just continued to smile at him.

 

“Huh.” A thoughtful look spread across Dean’s face as he turned the engine over. “Can a spirit be possessed by Danny Tanner?”

 

Sam laughed and shaking his head in amazement, Dean placed the car in drive.

 

-

 

-

 

-

 

~*~

 

From the porch, Missouri and Bobby watched them drive off, their hearts following.

 

“You know, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. For two days now she could sense an extra burden on his shoulders. “You figured it out.”

 

Bobby sighed. “Yeah,” he answered grimly.

 

Watching as the boys pulled out onto a long stretch of road, Missouri waited for him to continue.

 

The man that considered himself a surrogate father to the boys swallowed hard, preparing to speak aloud for the first time something he’d much, _much_ rather forget. “The spell Sam did was called, _The Spell of the Bonded_ —some sort of _binding_ spell that amplifies an already existing bond.” He shook his head, worry dark in his eyes having already filled his heart. “Sam must have misunderstood it. The spell won’t _keep_ Dean at Sam’s side here on earth. It’s more like a beacon. Sam will always just know, _feel_ exactly where Dean is.”

 

Missouri let the significance of what he was saying wash over her. She could only stand there…as it stole her breath away.

 

“If I didn’t know better…” Bobby continued a moment later, his voice impossibly thick with helplessness and worry. “If I didn’t know any better…I’d say the spell was _pointless_. That all it would be for Sam was a daily reminder. That, considering what he was going through at the time…the boy…he didn’t know what he was doin’.”

 

Wind teased Missouri’s hair as they watched the brothers speed further and further from their sight and protection. “But _we_ know better,” she replied almost regretfully, “Don’t we.”

 

“Yeah,” he answered hoarsely, heart breaking all over again. “Yeah, we do.” 

 

The boys would follow each other anywhere.

 

Even to hell.

 

“Leave the light on, Bobby,” she said as the Impala faded beyond the horizon and dust settled in their wake. “Those two are gonna need the road home lit.”

 

-

 

-

 

-

 

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! :)


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